


There's Something About Q

by Rigel99



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, BAMF!Q, Frottage, Leading to Mutual Attraction, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Pre-007, Pre-Quartermaster, SPECTRE Fix-It, Secret Intelligence Service | MI6, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Snark, flirty banter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-07-28 06:24:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 34,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7628530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rigel99/pseuds/Rigel99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Commander James Bond - Naval Officer, Lothario, Candidate for the Secret Service. Jonathan Quinn - Student, Savvy, Genius. Some things in this life are simply inevitable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Meetings Past, First Meetings Present

Commissioned artwork for this piece can be [found and fawned over here](http://rigel99.tumblr.com/post/151841888958/my-commissioned-piece-from-mobilis-to-accompany-my). 

 

**Main Computer Lab, Cambridge University, 2002**

Jonathan Quinn had been staring at the list of options on his University’s intraweb account for an hour now and was still no closer to making a choice. He wasn’t normally so indecisive. Quite the opposite in fact. Normally, he knew exactly what he wanted and exactly what had to be done to get it. Except when situations like these were forced upon him.  
_Fuck it,_ he thought to himself, _I’m only required to skate a pass. I’m going to ace every other module anyway._ Mentally, he flipped a coin, double-checked his choice with an eeny-meeny-miney-moe and resignedly clicked the box next to his selection before he changed his mind. One subject sufficiently out of his comfort zone but not so far removed that it _might_ prove useful when it came to impressing the powers-that-be. Military History. He sighed while he logged off and leaned back to stretch long gangly limbs above his head.

He hated history. The past was a place for those with regrets. Regrets were not something with which Jonathan Quinn was burdened.

Closing his eyes for a moment, he gave his normally disciplined mind free purchase to wander, the only sound the keyboard strokes rhythmically beating his eardrum and lulling his mind.

Today’s world moved fast and took no prisoners. Move with it or be crushed underfoot by the stampede of ambitious arseholes for which this college was notorious, bringing up the rear and nipping at his heels. The past needed to stay where it belonged as far as he was concerned. Advances in technology both in the lab and in the field were moving at an unprecedented rate and Jonathan wanted to move unhindered and unprecedentedly along with them. He had a goal, a vision for himself. _Suck it up, Quinn,_ he sighed to himself. _It’s_ _one term, for Christ sake._ He could survive one term of what was likely to be the most boring two hours a week for the next twelve weeks of his life. He logged off the system, packed up his laptop and phone and slung his messenger bag over his shoulder. Strolling out the door and past the tables of other students no doubt in a similar quandary to his own, he checked his watch. He had a couple of hours to kill before meeting the guys at St Radegund for drinks to discuss and bemoan the horror of their choices for the term ahead.

* * *

St Radegund’s was a well-known haunt of the Cambridge fraternity. Known for its selection of decent ale, homely food and a friendly staff - one of whom Jonathan infrequently took home to his rented accommodation, in between regular bouts with two of his “friends with benefits.” Uncomplicated, unobtrusive release without the emotional convolution that came with pursuing and managing a relationship, all too distracting to take on in conjunction with the intensity of his studies. One of his professors had made overtures but he considered that territory he wasn’t prepared to explore. The man was considerably older and while Jonathan wasn’t ageist, even he had standards. But… Never say never. The clientele was consistent though certain years and certain degree courses dominated year after year. In 2002, it was the PhD Computer Science graduates. At 18, Jonathan was the youngest of his peers on the course, most of them in their early twenties and a few older students. He’d had to prove himself initially, and figuratively had told them all to go fuck themselves by coming out on top in the first year. He’d already been headhunted by a few major international banks and other high punching organisations in the corporate sector. Not that Jonathan Quinn was interested in such a career, but it was always good for the grapevine on which he did have his sights set, to be aware that he was an asset worth their attention.

It was Thursday evening. The place was small so invariably, always had the feeling of being packed to the rafters, which Jonathan didn’t really mind whilst in the company of friends. He spotted them in a booth to the left as soon as he walked in, jostling through the crowded space towards them. Eyes trained on their position, he failed to notice the man turning from the bar, pivoting on his heel with a full pint in his hand. The collision was inevitable and unforgiving. Jonathan stood with his arms out feeling the cool liquid seep through his pullover and turn warm against his skin.

“Oh fucking hell!” he burst out angrily. “Watch where you’re going, will you? Bloody idiot.”

As it was an accident, the stranger was in no mood to be congenial towards an upstart student, eyeing him with disinterest while the boy continue to bemoan the state of affairs.

He grabbed the front hem of the garment and squeezed, releasing some of the beery beverage from the material. He glared at the man, who was frankly, looking far too nonplussed and unrepentant. That, of course, needled Jonathan even more.

“This was one of my best jumpers,” he ground out.

The stranger tilted his head. Jonathan waited for the apology. An apology which was, of course, not forthcoming.

“Really,” came the reply, looking at the garment with mock incredulity. “Then by my reckoning, I think I’ve done you a favour.”

 _Unrepentant wanker,_ thought Jonathan to himself, watching while the man reached into his inside jacket pocket and calmly pulled out a business card.

_How fucking quaint. Probably as archaic as he looked, the old bastard._

“Here’s my contact details. Send me the cleaning bill,” he said smiling nonchalantly.

Jonathan’s returning smile was sweetly sarcastic, snatching the card petulantly from the man’s fingers before he turned back towards the bar to re-order his drink. “Rest assured,” he replied glancing down at the name before meeting his gaze again, “Mr _Bond_. That I most certainly will.”

* * *

**MI6, Q’s office, London, 2012**

Q stared at the file on his screen.

Stared at a face he had never expected to see again. In this lifetime at least. Least of all under _these_ circumstances. He screwed his eyes shut and clutched his hair in his hands and took a deep, calming breath.

_FUCK. IT. ALL. TO. HELL. AND. BACK. IN. A. FUCKING. CAT. BASKET._

Because the last person you expect to see staring back at you is a former lecturer that you shagged for three months solid in all manner of ways and in all manner of intense-laden sexual scenarios that would give this year’s winner of the AVN award for personality of the year reason to blush all the way down to the arse.

James Bond. 007. Licence to make an unscheduled reappearance in the life of one Jonathan Quinn. Apparently, the SIS’s most nefarious, notorious and successful agent to date who had some kind of contract with Death, if his record was anything to go by.

 _Buggering Bastard Arse._ If this was Karma’s way of testing his resilience? Karma was a fucking bitch.

* * *

**The National Gallery, London, the same day.**

Bond hated art. Well, more specifically he despised the way in which so-called experts fawned over masterpieces, spouting their ill-contrived view of what was going on in the mind of the artist that forced the images manifested onto canvas via the tip of their brush. How could a man or woman, living in this brave, new world, comprehend the moment-to-moment thoughts and experiences of the person putting brush to canvas and translating—. He was dragged from his thoughts by the sense of someone sitting next to him, a little too close for comfort when the person to whom they had chosen to sit next was perpetually poised to react defensively when personal space was invaded.

“Always makes me a little melancholy….”

Bond frowned in response to the blurry but pleasant memories surfacing through his thoughts. _That voice._

 _“…_ A grand old warship being ignominiously hauled away for scrap.”

The words were soft, smooth and completely calm. Bond kept his eyes trained ahead. Not really trusting himself to look at the man. _What the bloody hell is Jonathan Quinn doing here?_

Of all the galleries in all of England.

_And how the hell is he staying so damn composed? If memory serves, composure wasn’t exactly his forte back in Cambridge any time he came near Bond. Quite the opposite in fact…_

“The inevitability of time don’t you think? What do you see?”

He turned to him then. “I see…” his face impassive, betraying no recognition. “My past come back to haunt me. Excuse me,” he continued, turning away to stand.

“007.” It was a rare thing to stop James Bond in his tracks. “I’m your new Quartermaster.”

Bond plonked his arse gracelessly back on the bench. “You must be joking.”

“You’ll find I never joke about matters of National Security, 007.”

“The spots are still thriving I see,” he said, casually.

“Do I detect a hint of jealousy?”

Bond scoffed. “Hardly. But I won’t hold my breath in the hopes of detecting a hint of competence.”

“Breath easy, 007,” Q replied, handing him a box. Bond took it and flipped it open to survey the contents. “You might be surprised. And if memory serves me correctly, you can be quite open-minded,” Q deadpanned.

Bond held his tongue. Ten years since he has seen Jonathan Quinn. Ten years and he’d not forgotten any of their encounters in that year he had guest lectured for one term at Cambridge, a favour for a colleague at the end of his Navy Service before joining the MI6 agent programme.

The boy, now a man sitting next to him, though his youthful appearance might counter that impression on first meeting, had taught him a thing or two about his own sexuality during that brief but intense experience. Jonathan Quinn’s relentless insistence in his pursuit of him all those years ago had broken through that steely soldier facade, refusing to take no for an answer. It appeared that tenacity had only blossomed and taken flight until he reached the upper echelons of one of the most secret organisations in the world.

“A gun. And a radio,” he glanced at Q again, and couldn’t resist the little tease that came into his voice. “Well, I would say it’s hardly Christmas, but…”

Q could sense what was coming. Their dalliance was brief but all the more memorable for that fact.

…That would be a lie,” his voice dropping to a lower cadence and while he wasn’t looking at Q, the implication was clear and present.

Q chose to ignore the implicitness of those words though they were not lost on him. That aside, they were professionals now. Colleagues with the safety of the nation’s interests on the international stage in their hands. He stood himself to beat a retreat.

Q paused and gave a half glance over his shoulder at the agent. “I’m sure I don’t need to ask you to respect your Quartermaster’s equipment, 007. I’m no miracle worker after all.” And on those words, he continued on his way.

Bond pocketed the envelope with his flight details and shut the box before rising and heading in the opposite direction to his new Quartermaster. No. James Bond was not one to believe in miracles. But in a world of random chance and universal inconstants, when two timelines can re-converge ten years after irrevocably changing the lives of one another?

He might well be convinced to rethink his philosophy.


	2. New Balls Please!

“Listen, Quinn. I absolutely refuse to let you miss out on the last weekend of proper debauchery before term begins.”

It’s Saturday morning. The final few days before term begins. Jonathan just wanted to relax, read and roll around their shared flat enjoying the calm before the predictable intensity of the weeks ahead bore down upon him.Frankly, Jonathan couldn’t be less than bollocksed with his friend’s idea of a weekend of debauchery.

He waved a dismissive hand in his direction while devouring his morning toast with the other. “You and your rabble don’t know the meaning of the word.” He leaned back in his chair at their cosy breakfast table, sliding the folded morning paper towards him, rolling his head back in mock impatience before gracing his roommate with a narrow-eyed, disapproving stare. “A night in London until the early hours of Sunday morning _might_ qualify.”

“Well, unless you’ve got a rich sugar daddy hiding under the table between your legs right now, giving you the blowjob of your young and impressionable life, Quinn, that isn’t going to happen,” he replied good-humouredly.

“Cricket,” Jonathan huffed into the teacup raised to his lips before turning his attention to the local and world events of the previous week.

Stephen Chaucer - stalwart friend and high IQ’d cohort-in-rabble-rousing - returned the disparaging look. “Merely a means of pacing ourselves for the rest of the day. And night ahead, of course.” He leaned forward, those intense, grey eyes flecked china blue perfectly positioned above high, sharp cheekbones - very much a factor in the physical attraction that had drawn Jonathan into his orbit during fresher week - now working double time on massaging his weak spots. “A couple of nice, relaxing G and Ts on the sidelines of the lawn while watching perfectly pert arses ensconced in tighty whiteys that gloriously accentuate every curvy line that casts a shadow in the afternoon sun gliding up and down the playing field.”

Jonathan placed his cup, acknowledging the sly grin on his roommate’s face that indicated he knew he was on the winning side of this particular discussion. “You make a compelling argument.”

Stephen's smile broadened in modest victory. “Part of my charm.”

* * *

“You could at least pretend to be interested, Quinn.”

“I am interested. This gin you’ve brought along is quite something, Chaucer…” Jonathan yawned into the back of his hand. “You’ve read Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, I take it?” he asked, sipping his tumbler of clear, cool liquid while tipping his head back to admire the crystal clear blue above him.

“Well, yes. When I was seven years old,” Stephen replied matter-of-factly. “I wasn’t born in a shed with my head up a cow’s arse, you know.”

Their other companions, Michael and Terence, laughed heartily. Jonathan didn’t think it was especially amusing but given both were quite attractive looking and fancied his friend he let it go. Jonathan was keen to see the man set up sooner rather than later in the term so that he didn’t have to suffer the distraction of a physical relationship during term time. He had significant plans and if those plans were to come to fruition, he had to play a long game to prove his worth. Shagging his way around the Cambridge Colleges did not factor into those plans.

Jonathan sat up with his back to the game to face the three of them. “So you are well aware the truths of the game of cricket expounded by Adams? Based on the Krikket Wars? It’s poor taste, racially-motivated leanings? Charming and polite yet in possession of cosmocidal tendencies?”

Stephen waved his hand dismissively, gaze glancing slightly to the left over Jonathan’s shoulder, eyes widening appreciatively while speaking his next words. Jonathan frowned and rolled his eyes at the boy’s easily diverted attentions but didn’t divert his own.

“Well quite,” Stephen replied distractedly, “though all that doesn’t preclude the fact that the fielder hurdling backwards towards us right now has quite the lovely set of—!” Stephen didn’t have time to complete his sentence, rolling to the side. Jonathan half-turned his torso, a confused look on his face. The subsequent collision ended abruptly as it had begun, the fielder dipping down before the ball hit the ground close to Jonathan’s back, stumbling backward, the momentum carrying him through and into a brief, rough tumble with the wiry student.

Jonathan shook dark, rumpled locks out of his eyes, to meet bright, sky blue ones staring back, blinking at him in bemused recognition.

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” Jonathan groaned, letting his head fall back on the manicured grassy softness beneath them. “Not _you_ again!”

* * *

James’ expression was irritatingly amused. Jonathan’s, decidedly less so. Untangling himself smoothly from the boy beneath with little hesitation, he sat back on his heels and straightened up, offering his hand while he did so. Jonathan grabbed the proffered limb grudgingly. “You appear to be rapidly developing an unhealthy predilection for destroying my things,” he grumbled irritably, releasing the grip and making a show of brushing himself down. Stephen stood up as well and took the few short steps to bring him astride his friend. He glanced at his back. “You look like you’ve been buggered by a frog, Quinn.”

“Oh bravo, James! Good snare!” one of his teammates shouted across the field. James glanced over his shoulder with what Jonathan could only assume he thought was a devastating smile and flexed the wrist of the hand holding the cricket ball. He turned back to face Jonathan, who was still levelling him with what James could only assume he thought was a withering glare. “You should watch your back,” said James smoothly with a casual, appraising tilt of his head. “I take it you still have my contact details from the other night in the pub?” he enquired, tossing the ball from one palm to the other while taking a step back towards the game.

Jonathan rolled his eyes when he felt a querying poke to his back ribs from Stephen and the muffled chuckles from their other two companions. “Oh never fear, my good man. The bill will be emailed to you before the weekend is out!” he called to his retreating back.

Stephen casually draped an arm across Jonathan’s shoulders. “And who was that gorgeous bit of rough?” he asked in mock innocence. “Been holding out on me have you, Mr Quinn?”

“Gorgeous? Hardly,” Jonathan replied incredulous, resuming his seat on the grass, facing the action this time for fear of coming a cropper once again.

Stephen flopped down alongside him. “Well, if you’re not game, I certainly am,” he ventured. “Did you see the size of his hands? He can play with my balls any time he bloody well pleases.”

“For pity’s sake, Stephen, you’re nothing more than a walking lump of glandular ejaculate.”

“I try,” he chuckled, not diverting his eyes from James’ stocky but attractive form, currently occupied with covering the distance between the stumps as swiftly as humanly possible.

“And is your gaydar completely gone awry? The man is obviously straighter than the international dateline.”

“Even that has a few kinks in it,”Stephen murmured into his drink, watching Jonathan expectantly with the occasional glance in the direction of the game.

Jonathan shook his head. Stephen was brilliant but he was more than capable of dumbing down said brilliance by being an insufferable arse at times. “What little I know of the _offending article_ to which you refer, is more than enough given the nature of our encounters,” Jonathan said crisply.He gave a put-upon sigh at the unfaltering gaze of his companion. “And to answer your question, _all_ I know is he holds a position in the Navy, his email address andthat he has been blessed with the most boring name in the world.”

“Which is?” Stephen asked.

“Bond, James Bond.”


	3. Something Old, Something New

**  
MI6, Q Branch Bunker, London, 2012**

Q was busying himself alone in a side room with upgrades to the Aston Martin. 009 had put in several suggestions and ideas that he was more than happy to include since they had the budget. For once. Q’s sensibilities when it came to shifting funds from one line to another to make savings and improve areas that required more immediate attention was simply another aspect of his mind that could be put to good use towards the efforts taken to reshaping Q Branch with his own vision.

So it was such when Bond returned to Six, he went to register his mission assets to the Quartermaster and found him, with one of his own rather delectable assets shoved in the air over the open-bonneted engine of the DB10, tinkering away contentedly, seemingly in a world of his own design. At least, Bond thought so, standing for a moment to admire the view on display, until Q spoke in that soft caressing timbre of his.

“Welcome back, 007. Something I can do for you?” he enquired, over the clink of tool against metal and the sound of plugs being yanked and realigned to another part of the car.

“Hello, Q. Nothing pressing. Simply reporting in with your assets. They handle very well by the way,” replied Bond levelly, taking another step closer to bring him alongside the front of the car. "As always."

Q hauled his body out and grabbed the cloth sitting nearby to dab his sweat-sheened brow. He stood, long and lithe as Bond remembered, not yet looking at the agent, shirt sleeves rolled up neatly to his elbows while he removed his glasses to wipe them clean. It was only when he replaced his specs on his nose, he turned towards him, giving him the full pelt of hazel-green. Unreadable, impassive. Well, unreadable to one who hadn’t bore witness to his younger version writhing above a former guest lecturer in the soft leather chair of a Cambridge office between seminars anyway.

“Mission successful I hear, 007. M was most pleased. Well, as pleased as a woman who has to stand in front of the Select Committee and haul your backside out of the burning building that was your previous mission.”

“I give her something to moan about. Since the arrival of the new Quartermaster, her life has gotten a little mundane. He’s so… efficient and talented, one wonders if he were born of this world at all.”

“You haven’t changed a bit, you sarky arse,” chuckled Q, tossing the cloth to one side and resting his previously admired asset against the smoothness of the metal clad asset beside them. “Well, a few more crinkles to add to the facial topography perhaps, but nothing not to be expected given our line of work.”

Bond rested his own body gently next to him. “It’s been far too long. Jonathan…” said Bond, watching the quirk of his lips in reflexive response to the sound of his former name.

“Best not use that name here, 007.”

Bond slid an inch closer, leaning imperceptibly from his waist towards him. “Implying “not using that name here.” Does that mean there are other circumstances under which I could abuse it?” he enquired softly.

Q merely smiled and pushed himself off the vehicle and walked away. “Leave your tech in the tray on my workbench on the way out, 007. I’ll assume your predilection for destroying my things has remained intact.” He looked over his shoulder while he spoke and to anyone else, the statement would have appeared dismissive. To Bond, it was practically an invitation, conjuring up welcome memories, involving the destruction of that previously mentioned very comfortable office chair which he had had to replace out of his own University stipend.

Bond unholstered the weapon and took the earpiece out of his breast pocket whilst walking towards Q’s equipment-strewn bench, the men eyeing each other across the narrow space. Bond assumed a relaxed pose, sliding his hands into his suit trouser pockets. Jonathan Quinn had always been a rather glorious challenge.

Before Bond turned to leave the bunker, he allowed his gaze an indulgent traversal across Q’s features, resting for a few moments more on that rather glorious, snark-filled mouth. “I seem to recall that particular personal nuance being positively nurtured during our after hours one-on-one sessions. So really, you have no one to blame but yourself, Q.”

 _And there it is,_ thought Bond. For while it was only a dusting across his cheekbones, Bond was gratified to observe the pink tinge manifest, in that place where it had always been before, on the infrequent occasion Bond had gotten the better of the boy in word or in action. He turned then to beat an exit. Bond had played it cool in Cambridge but Q had gotten the better of him in the end. Now, it was Bond’s turn. He slid the door shut behind him, wondering with a small thrill that he had not felt in such a very long time, if this incarnation of Jonathan Quinn would be as enlightening as the previous one. A lot can - and had - happened in the ten years since they had parted company.

A few moments mulling while strolling back towards his own office, and well-honed instinct told him he would not be disappointed.

* * *

**10 Years Previously. First Monday of Term, Lecture Theatre 007, Queen’s College Cambridge.**

Monday mornings weren’t exactly a specialty of Jonathan Quinn, regardless of the weekend activities. Standing in the corridor outside the Lecture Theatre waiting for Stephen to pitch up, he supposed he should be thankful for a 10am start. The boy would be late for his own funeral, thought Jonathan to himself, just as his phone pinged.

_Dying a slow and agonising death. Take notes for me?_

For fuck’s sake. If he could be bothered to turn up for said funeral of course, Jonathan thought, snapping the phone shut with a sigh and looking up with a pained expression. What he really wasn’t thankful for however, was the sight of one James Bond striding long, confident steps in his direction as he hovered at the entrance to the lecture hall. Jonathan frowned. _Surely, the aged fucker isn’t a student…?_ That thought laid to rest when the man’s intense gaze, framed in iron-rimmed spectacles fell on him, along with his first words as Mr Bond reached for the handle of the door. “If you think for one second you are wearing those aviators throughout my lecture, Mr Quinn, you’ve got another bloody thing coming. An extra essay on a subject of my choosing being the first option that springs to mind,” he said coolly.

Jonathan could barely suppress the incredulous groan in his voice, so thick in his throat it barely escaped. “ _You’re_ the Military History lecturer?!”

“At your service, Mr Quinn.” He pulled open the door, his shit-eating grin broad enough to bridge the gap the opening created before them.

“After you. My good man…”

* * *

Ninety minutes later during which time Jonathan was forced to listen, given the thwarting of his plan to sleep through most of it behind the safety of his sunglasses, he actually found himself moderately engaged in the topic. The group was a mix of post- and under-graduates and Jonathan was vaguely intrigued by the fact that a large proportion of the group consisted of women. Well, 52% at least. James Bond had run them through an overviewing gauntlet of some of the most intriguing naval and land-fought battles, teasing apart the politics of the time and stitching them together into new patterns like a complex multi-dimensional puzzle to be teased apart and restructured again and again, which of course, Jonathan loved. He spoke with authority and a level of measured enthusiasm that kept the degree of interest in the room simmering gently for the duration of the lecture. Of course, he was talking above the heads of many of the students but that hardly mattered.

Jonathan understood, processed and catalogued every word.

Maybe this module wouldn’t be such a hardship after all, he mused to himself…

* * *

His Thursday early morning run took him around the expansive gardens behind his residence on his way back from the playing fields. A few minutes from his quarters, Bond stopped to catch his breath and a drink by a sycamore tree. “How was your first week, Commander?” His handler’s voice drifted soft and surprisingly unintrusive from the other side of the trunk. Bond continued to sip from his bottle betraying no hint of surprise. He had been prepared for contact from MI5 on a weekly basis. He just didn’t know where or when. All he did know was that he was under fairly consistent surveillance, and his performance was being thoroughly and continuously appraised.

“Very well, I believe,” replied Bond. At 6am in the morning, the gardens were virtually free of human life, so his communing with a tree went unobserved.

“It’s not so much what _you_ believe, Commander Bond,” the voice gently quipped.

“No. I suppose it isn’t.” He was rapidly adjusting to this form of subtle manipulation and espionage. Having lived and breathed the Navy for ten years, the military lifestyle rarely fostered subtlety, but Bond had found even in the heady and heated environment of a band of people perpetually prepared to go into battle at the drop of a bomb, he had quite the knack for reading his fellow human beings, slipping under their skin without their even noticing his presence and doing what was needed to get the job done. It came naturally. A second skin. Those traits were in fact, the reason he was standing where he was now.

“There’s a small, flat rock by your foot,” the disembodied voice continued. “We’ll be in touch again soon.”

Bond said nothing, didn’t even hear the man depart but knew he was gone by the time he flexed his foot to knock the stone to the side. He glanced down briefly and saw the flash drive. He slid bodily down the trunk of the tree and placed his hand over it, palming it while he continued to sup from his water bottle. Standing, stretching and turning his face briefly to bask in the early morning sun, he resumed his steady jog back to his residence.


	4. Shave and a haircut, two bytes!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So as soon as I heard Ben was going to be bringing Freddie Mercury to life on the big screen? I couldn’t resist.

_“Tooonighhtt, I’m gonna have myyyselffff, a real good time, I feel a-li-hi-hi-ive… And the woorrrlldd…”_

Stephen was standing by the bar, knocking back his fourth tequila and chuckling to himself at the sight of his normally prim and proper roommate giving his all at karaoke. Jonathan worked like a man possessed by the devil of data himself but for one night of every month, he gave himself a reprieve. Tonight was the first of those nights in the new term.

_…”I’m floating around, in ecstasy so…”_

_Don’t stop me now…_ the gaggle of undergrads standing in front of the small stage merrily chimed in. _Don’t stop me…_

_“Cos I’m havin' a good time, havin’ a good time…!”_

Stephen was delightfully tipsy and focussed on the fun so he heard before he felt or saw the presence appear close to him. “I get the distinct impression he’s not normally so… animated?”

Stephen tipped his head to the side and felt the need to involuntarily clear a suddenly dry throat when his eyes met those of one James Bond. He tore his gaze away to refocus on Jonathan who was now mid-chorus, head tipped back, eyes closed, lost in the lyrics and the singalong rabble before him.

“He’d have those who don’t know him particularly well believe that he’s a veritable saint, Mr Bond. Nothing could be further from the truth. He’s all smoke and mirrors.”

“Indeed,” replied the lecturer, knocking back the dregs of his own vodka.They said nothing more, only watched Jonathan get decidedly more animated and physical on the stage, much to the delight of his gathered fans.

“Your absence from my first two lectures has not gone unnoticed, Mr Chaucer,” he finally said, keeping his eyes trained on Jonathan as he spoke, “and be assured attendance is part and parcel of passing the module.” He placed his glass on the bar. “Tell Mr Quinn I said hello, and that it’s a good thing he’s in possession of… other talents.” And on that rather cryptic note he turned to leave, Stephen releasing a long breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding, just as Jonathan was hitting his own closing notes.

_“I don’t wanna stop at aaallllll…..!”_

* * *

**Shanghai, 2012.**

Q held flying in the same regard as he held the rise of the Kardashians: with contempt. Granted, your odds of coming a cropper with some disaster were considerably higher when you lived in a deathtrap like London, but really, why he had to fly halfway around the world with replacements to Bond’s tech…

It really didn’t help that the memories of their liaisons popped into his mind at some rather inopportune moments. He’d be lost in coding only to recall various interactions (after he had convinced the man that his sexuality was much more fluid than he was giving it credit for) with the man, alone or out of earshot, testing and training him with heated gazes, their encounters together in Cambridge dancing clear as day in his eyes. Q was no shrinking violet by any stretch of any imagination, particularly in the intervening years where his training for his future as the Quartermaster of MI6 had taken him around the world and back again, but dammit. Bond…

He was making his way through the hotel lobby where Bond was staying awaiting instruction from HQ on the arrival of Patrice. Naturally, Bond being Bond, couldn’t keep his nose clean until then, having come to the aid of some damsel or other and _somehow_ losing his personalised Walther in the process.

 _Reckless arse,_ thought Q, riding the elevator up to the 11 th floor and disembarking with long, rapid strides towards his room. He took a breath and raised his hand to knock, when the door suddenly opened and a half-dressed Oriental girl stumbled giggling out the door. Q caught her briefly and straightened her up while she muttered some thanks in her native tongue and gave an embarrassed little wave over her shoulder at… Q turned to see Bond propping up the door frame in nothing but a small towel.

“For buggering sakes, Bond, can’t you keep your todger in your pants for five seconds?” he muttered, brushing past him and into the room. He dumped his bag unceremoniously on the chair before turning back to him as he closed the door behind them.

“Lovely to see you too, Q.”

The boffin ignored him. “I take it that was the young lady - emphasis on _young_ by the way - whom you rescued last night?”

Bond shrugged and strolled to the mirror and sink by the wall opposite. “A man’s got to eat where he can, Q.” He started lathering up his face and took in the sight of the Quartermaster. In his hotel room. Now. Looking more delicious than he could ever recall. “Especially when the meal in which he really wants to indulge is not on the menu. This season’s menu at least…”

“Oh give it a rest, 007. It’s bloody lucky for you that you are in possession of talents sorely needed by the Service. You’d have been hung out to dry years ago were it not for that,” he muttered loud enough for Bond to hear. He busied himself unpacking his Pad to check all was well in Q Branch and pulled out Bond’s Walther replacement to check all was in order. He turned towards Bond then, only to find the man not a foot away from him, holding a cutthroat.

Q’s composure was stalwart as ever. “Still the decadent fucker I see.”

“Sometimes, the old ways are the best ways,” said Bond, extending the hand holding the blade towards Q. Q simply raised an eyebrow in question.

“I wonder if my Quartermaster might provide a little assistance.” He pressed his fingers into his pectoral and winced at his touch to the wound with which Moneypenny had graced him.

“You’re a daft bastard to suggest something like that when I’m holding a gun.”

“Please?” the feigned imploring in his voice not fooling Q at all.

“I don’t bloody think so, 007,” he replied staunchly turning his attention back to his Pad.

“What? Afraid you might enjoy yourself?” The words transported Q back 10 years in time to where a very similar scenario had ended in a mind-blowing bout of sex that had never since been equalled.

“Well. When you put it like that…” he said coolly turning back and snatching the blade from his fingers. Bond stepped back towards the mirror and leaned his backside against the edge of the porcelain sink. Q’s hand was steady as he raised the blade. “Now. Stay perfectly still, 007. We wouldn’t want to add to that burgeoning collection of scars now, would we?”

Bond did as he was told. But it wouldn’t have been the first time he’d complied to Jonathan Quinn’s demands under certain mitigating conditions…

Q tilted Bond’s head back slightly and glided the edge of the blade over his throat and with equal steady smoothness down the side of his cheek. “While I’m here, perhaps there are a few things that require clarifying, 007.”

“Mmmm…” Bond took advantage of Q’s focussed concentration and placed his hands on his hips, shuffling him closer while Q wiped the blade on the towel resting on his shoulder. Q didn’t resist. Neither of them were hard, Q oozing professional composure and given that Bond had spent himself over a dark-haired beauty a mere 20 minutes previously, it was hardly a surprise.

“One: You are a Double O.” Q glanced the cutthroat down the other cheek.

“Two: I am your Quartermaster.” He wiped it again, ignoring the hands resting still just below his waist.

“And three: By the very definition, I am your superior officer and as such responsible for your safety and well-being.” He placed the blade to the side and raised his spectacled hazel gaze to meet Bond’s crystal blue. “If you think for one moment, I am going to compromise our professional integrities by becoming emotionally involved…” he said softly.

“Who said anything about emotions?” retorted Bond just as levelly. Q stepped away, Bond’s hands falling naturally to his sides before he lifted them to grab the towel and wipe away the remains of the foam.

“Who indeed,” he replied grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. “Take care, 007. I’ll see you back in London in a few days, assuming you don’t radio for help in the meantime,” he quipped gently, turning the door handle. And then he was gone.

Bond’s phone pinged with Patrice’s flight details.

He smiled to himself. Even if Q had said no (which Bond had catalogued during the exchange that he had most definitely not), an agent who excels in his field never takes no for an answer. And Bond was indeed excellent. Of course, hewas also a man who understood through a wealth of experience that the greater the challenge, the sweeter the victory.

And he planned on conquering Q the way Jonathan Quinn had once conquered him.


	5. No Man Is An Island

Q was gently roused by two sounds almost simultaneously emanating from his phone, charging on the floor of his hotel room next to his rather comfortable plush bed. He cracked open an eye and made a fumbled reach for the mobile.

One sound heralded a message from R, back in London, keeping the machine running in his absence.

_007’s radio has been activated. We believe he’s located the target._

The second sound indeed indicated that Bond’s radio transmitter was active. Q swallowed a grumble, hauling himself out of bed and dragging feet through plush carpet as he made a beeline for the bathroom and a hand through sleep-tousled hair. Blasted man couldn’t wait until I’d at least gotten out of the country before getting himself in trouble again, he thought to himself.

“Did you sign up for this, Jonathan?” he said to the rather unhelpful reflection staring back at him. “I think not.” He sighed and tossed the towel into the bath. His phone chimed informing him of an incoming call. He strolled back to side of the bed and scooped it off the floor.

M. Wonderful. Calling to congratulate him on not throttling Bond no doubt. Not.

He hit green. “Yes Ma’am.”

_“We need you to stay put, Q. The rescue and retrieval team is en route to Bond’s location and one of the helicopters will be taking a detour to pick you up.”_

Before he could ask why, she continued, brisk and brittle as ever. _“If my suspicions are correct, we will need your expertise. You’ll know what I mean when you get there.”_

She hung up. Q tossed the phone on the bed and flopped himself down beside it. It was days like these he wished for a return to those halcyon days when after going dark, he’d stayed dark…

* * *

Once their target had been secured by the team, the team leader signalled Q who was waiting in the helicopter. Gripping his laptop bag tight to his chest, Q hopped gracelessly and ducked down to jog away and in the direction of the derelict building housing the virtual hive. He felt himself grimace every so slightly at the sight of the femme fatale - Severine, he understood had been her name - tied to a boulder and slumped in death. Dark, slender, no doubt intelligent, if she held interest for a mind like that of the man of whom Bond had been in pursuit. A waste of life. Q was quickly distracted from his dark thoughts on entering the expansive room. He found himself brought up short at the sheer expanse of the makeshift empire. He shouldn’t really be impressed by the sheer brilliance of a man who could only be described as diabolical after what he had done to River House, killing several people whom he had begun to form respect and professional bonds that could have well led to friendship. There was no denying, however, that where this mind was concerned the word diabolical was certainly followed by genius. “I’ll just need about ten minutes, gentlemen,” said Q dismissively, setting himself up next to the main desktop. “You can start dismantling as soon as I’ve downloaded the core programming from the mainframe.” The support crew drifted out to leave him to it. His laptop was booting up and Q had sufficiently schooled his expression back to impassive when Bond drifted back in.

“Need a hand?”

Q was in Quartermaster mode and was in no mood for the agent’s shenanigans.

“I think you’ve done more than enough damage for one day, 007.”

His next words were spoken without even thinking beyond the lines of code he was currently studying on the screen before him.

“That out there,” said Q officiously, “ is why people like you and I can’t have nice things, Bond.” As soon as the words slipped out, Q regretted them, not that Bond was betraying a reaction one way or another. He was singularly trained not to do so. But Q had known him in another time, another place. Knew the man before the Service had sunk its steel trap jawed teeth into the mind of the man and doggedly held on. Bond’s gaze was impassive. 

He mentally slapped himself in the face and then grabbed the back of his own head and knocked it into the desk for good measure.“My apologies, 007. That was distinctly unprofessional of me.”

Bond did his usual trick of appearing completely unaffected. “Regret is unprofessional. The truth is not, Q.”

He turned away and sat in the chair to which he had been bound during his rather enlightening chat with his captor. Q watched and observed, for the first time since their reunion, the merest trace of tiredness in his shoulders.

He checked the download status on the screen of the main computer and happy it was progressing as planned, walked over and took the chair opposite Bond. He heaved a sigh.

Bond was looking into the middle distance, giving Q a moment to observe him on his own terms, which of course was Bond’s bloody intention and Q damn well knew it.

“Nearly ten years ago, I fell for you completely and without reservation.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “But that was a lifetime ago, Bond. We are not those people anymore.”

James levelled him with his usual quiet intensity. “Wouldn’t you like to recapture the moment?”

Q allowed himself a rare instant of self-indulgence, leaning forward to touch. Bond’s shirt was still partly undone, allowing Q access to run his fingers lightly along his collarbone to come to rest on his most recent scar. “And wound each other all over again?” he whispered, withdrawing his fingers and meeting Bond’s intense gaze. His laptop sounded, bringing him back to the present.

“Right then,” he said firmly, standing. “Let’s get ourselves back to bas—“ his sentence cut short by the feel of Bond snaring his wrist, thumb instantly moving in a caress against his pulse point.

“When you’re ready, I’ll be waiting.” He released the wrist as quickly as he had taken it, “Jonathan,” and left Q standing, mildly perplexed by the unexpected surge of emotion threatening his composure.

_Damn the man._


	6. Trials and Revelations

**Cambridge, 2002.**

Bond entered the quiet, almost tawdry drinking establishment at the pre-arranged time of 9pm. It was a sprawling hovel of a place far enough away from the University so as not to be populated by anyone who might recognise him, and even if they did, it didn’t matter. His cover story was solid. The Agency had made sure of that and prying minds would find nothing of interest should they wish to take their curiosity to another level. The success of his mission after all, required on his keeping a low profile as nothing more than a nondescript lecturer passing through, lending his considerable naval experience to the youthful aspiring of the College. Some of those aspiring, he was learning rather quickly, were very much more so than others.

It was now in Week 3 into the term and Bond had been nothing but impressed with the postgraduates of his class. Of course, one in particular stood head and shoulders above his peers, having excelled in the two preliminary assignments they had been given, a simple exercise employed to gauge the level of competency of each student so Bond was under no illusions with whom or what he was dealing. He mused on his meeting with Jonathan Quinn earlier that day in his office, a requirement of each student in order to discuss their proposal for a mini-dissertation and how it fit into the overall curriculum. Bond was impressed, though hardly surprised given what he had read about the boy, that he had chosen Alan Turing and his work on Enigma. His proposal was to translate that work to the 21st century and what it would mean to current efforts in espionage and the thwarting of threats to world socio-economic stability. Yes. Impressed. Though that was perhaps too mild a word but it would do for now. Aside from that, and the two incidences that Bond had orchestrated in order to invade the boy’s space and see how he handled himself in socially challenging situations, they had experienced minor mutual contact.

Little did Bond realise in that moment though, as he took his seat opposite his MI5 contact, that was about to change.

“Finally, I get to put a face to the voice,” said Bond smoothly. “Do I get a name as well?” The sandy-haired man across the table surveyed him with an appraising look that gave little away. To him, this was little more than a test of his own. The Head of MI6 was looking for a replacement right-hand body. James Michael Villiers had every intention of securing that post. Proving he could handle a test operative in the field was one of his final steps in that direction.

He didn’t extend his hand. “You can call me Michael.” Bond could tell he was an exceptionally good liar, a fine quality in their line of work when employed in the right circumstances. “Drink?” enquired Villiers.

“Vodka would be lovely thank you, Michael.” He nodded and slipped out of the booth to fulfil the request. Bond watched him move across the floor. Experience and skill that didn’t overtly reveal itself to the untrained eye. He could have been any man in any bar anywhere in the world and would not be noticed unless he chose to be. Characteristics Bond himself was honing with each passing day.

Villiers resumed his seat opposite, sliding the glass towards Bond. “Your good health,” said Bond tipping his glass towards Villiers before tipping it back to his own lips.

“So, Commander Bond. It’s been three weeks…”

Bond coated his tongue and the roof of his mouth before allowing the liquid access to his throat. “Considering the limitations within which I’m required to observe, I’ve not witnessed or gleaned anything untoward in his behaviour.”

“Sounds like an excuse to me, Commander,” Villiers responded blandly.

James ignored the jibe, countering with, “Are you certain your intel is sound?”

Villiers did his best not to look affronted at the suggestion. “I assure you, that boy has got his fingers in some very deep and dangerous pies, Commander.” He leaned forward. “It’s up to us - or more specifically you - to ascertain who’s side exactly he is on and if he poses a real and present danger.”

Bond scoffed into his glass. “I’ve seen teddy bears with sharper claws than Jonathan Quinn.”

Villiers leaned back again and Bond watched. There was a brief flit across his features that betrayed the knowledge that he knew far more than Bond. “M has sanctioned you to get… closer to the situation.”

Bond frowned. “Define closer, exactly?”

Villiers knew from his file that the man was a cast-iron chauvinist and womaniser. His lack of attention from the fairer sex in his younger years had seen to that. What M had sanctioned Villiers to do this evening, was put Bond through the wringer. _Let’s see exactly how far he’s prepared to go for Queen and Country,_ she had said.

“Closer…” said Villiers softly, leaning smoothly forward and running his fingers over the back of Bond’s hand resting on the table beside his glass. The move was completely unexpected and Bond jerked every so slightly in response, withdrawing his hand instinctively.

He trawled back through his memories of the mission brief. _All agents, when the circumstances demand such, are required to possess a degree of psychological and sexual flexibility…_

Villiers was smiling smugly, as though he knew Bond would respond the way he did. Bond rancoured internally. _Fucker thinks I’m not up to it does he. Well we’ll see about that._ He was about to say as such when the look on Villiers face shifted slightly and refocussed elsewhere.

“Understood,” he whispered. He looked at James then, who bore the look of the slightly off balance.

“Adapt or perish, Commander Bond. Thinking on one’s feet should be second nature,” he stood and slipped on his coat. “Care to walk me to the door?”

* * *

Stephen and Jonathan were walking down the street together, on their return from a small arthouse cinema showing of HG Wells The Time Machine.

“I love that movie. Simpler times,” sighed Stephen.

“You mean when all you had to do was attach a satellite dish to your Lazyboy to take on time and space?” Jonathan scoffed. “Give me a TARDIS any day of the week.”

Stephen sighed again. “You don’t have a romantic bone in your body, do you?”

“Oh I don’t know. Sometimes I do…” he said turning to his companion and pushing him against the nearest wall to lay an unexpectedly welcome kiss on his neck.

Stephen smiled and was about to reciprocate when he spotted someone wholly unexpected across the street from their position - James Bond, lingering with a companion outside a pub. Stephen took Jonathan by the shoulders and spun him around to face the couple.

“See?” hissed Stephen. “I bloody told you!” Jonathan was too surprised to reply to the comment, watching as the shorter, sandy-haired stranger raised a hand to run along Bond’s jaw. They watched from the shadows as Bond gripped the hand and brought the palm to his lips, kissing it gently. Villiers moved forward into an embrace and Jonathan assumed words were whispered in his ear as Bond’s hands stilled on his companion’s waist and his features took on a focussed expression. The sight flew in the face of every conclusion he had come to about the man. Unfortunately, so engrossed was he in the interaction, he was too late and distracted by the revelations to realise Stephen was already strolling purposefully towards the couple in time to stop him.

“Mr Bond!” he called. They broke away from each other to see Stephen approach and Jonathan jogging after him with a rather irritated look on his face. “Well, well. Fancy meeting you here. Not what I’d consider a local haunt for a senior lecturer.”

Bond cleared his throat and assumed the role as though he were sliding on a glove. “Less of the senior, thank you, Mr Chaucer.” Villiers couldn’t help but be marginally impressed. He’d expected him to bottle it, given his psychological profile. So it was a little surprising when Bond slipped an arm around his waist and dragged him closer, feigning slight tipsiness in his movement as he did so. It obviously worked, given the raise of an eyebrow and the mischievous smirk from Stephen in response to the sight.

“Ah, and Mr Quinn. An equally pleasant addition to the mix,” said Bond casually. Jonathan was having difficulty maintaining his composure.

“Good evening, Mr Bond. So sorry to disrupt your evening. Chaucer’s an inquisitive bastard at the most inopportune of times.”

“Not to worry, gentlemen. We are all adults here and I trust you to exercise discretion,” he replied, a mild leer on his features while he turned his attention back to his handler. “Aren’t you going to introduce us, James?” Villiers enquired with a smile.

“Of course,” he said smoothly. “Stephen Chaucer, Jonathan Quinn. Michael Vance.”

“A pleasure, Mr Vance,” said Stephen, all wide-eyed curiosity at this revelation. “Jonathan and I were just going for a drink…”

“Oh we were, were we?” he asked primly.

“Yes,” he said, turning briefly to give him a firm look. “Would you care to join us?” he asked, turning back to the men.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to decline on this occasion. Shipping out early tomorrow and need to get to Southampton tonight. Another time perhaps,” Villiers said, stepping out of Bond’s embrace.

“Goodbye James. I’ll be in touch,” he said, slipping into the darkness between the streetlamps casting their illuminations.

“Make sure you are,” said James, applying his most seductive smile to the situation. Villiers, again, was impressed. It might have been a convincing act had he not known it to be the charade it was.

“Won’t you join us, Mr Bond?” asked Stephen hopefully. Jonathan resisted the urge to elbow him in the ribs. “I’m sure Mr Bond has better things to be getting on with than fraternising with students, Chaucer,” he said saccharine-sweet, giving the man the out he hoped he would take.

“Alas, Mr Quinn is correct on this occasion. Bumping into your both was a pleasant happenstance but I must be getting on. See you both in class on Wednesday,” and on those word he left them in each other’s company.

Stephen gave a satisfied huff. “Well, that was a revelation. And yet again, my gaydar proves to be much more finely honed than yours, Quinn.”

Jonathan remained unconvinced but said nothing except, “Come on. I need a bloody drink,” turning towards the shoddy little dive from which Bond and his fellow had just departed.

_And a bloody TARDIS of my own so I can go back in time and undo the last seven minutes of my life…_


	7. The Not-So-Silent Treatment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the original idea has evolved slightly beyond the remit and this story is now in control of its own evolution. I am powerless in the face of 00Q. I surrender...

“Right. I’m off,” said Stephen, checking his watch and stuffing his bag with the books procured from the shelves of the main library where they were currently working on their dissertations.

Jonathan didn’t look up from the text when he enquired. “Off where exactly?”

“Terence…” Stephen began. He did look up then.

“Finally grew a pair and asked you on a date, did he?” Jonathan said, leaning back in his chair with a smile.

“I’d hardly call it a _date,_ Quinn,” he tsked. “He just wants to broaden his horizons…”

“Hmmm. I’m sure that’s not the only thing you’ll be helping him _broaden_ before the week’s end,” he said with a mocking leer.

Stephen looked affronted, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “You, Sir, have a cesspool for a mind.”

“Pot, kettle methinks,” replied Jonathan, grinning unabashedly.

“Well. I’m forced to seek out other quarters if you won’t attend to my carnal needs,” he flipped back.

“You know me. All or nothing, Chaucer. And until I get my dissertation completed, that’s the only “all” I can afford to focus on.” He was still smiling when drawing his attention back to the book on the mechanics of Enigma. “Besides, you can’t help being so gorgeously irresistible. Far too much of a distraction…”

“Well that’s something we can agree on at least.” Stephen gave a little wave before retreating from their corner. “Toodle Ooo.”

“Have fun,” Jonathan singsonged after him, “be gentle with the lad!” he quipped, a little too loudly for the likes of one of the librarians who had just at that moment decided to walk nearby.

“You will respect the rules of this establishment or find elsewhere to study, young man!” she stated primly.

Quinn waited until her back was turned before sticking out his tongue at her.

“Very mature, Mr Quinn,” the quietly deep timbre tone said, Mr Bond materialising from around the side of one of the bookshelves just as Jonathan’s tongue retreated back behind his lips. He whipped his head around, giving the man a narrow-eyed look of suspicion. Bond was not looking at him at all, choosing instead to focus on the rows of shelves that the books on the lesser known events of World War Two called home.

Jonathan shifted slightly in his seat taking a heartbeat to recover from the sudden appearance. “If I didn’t know better I’d say you were stalking me. If I may observe, Mr Bond, your proximity to my location is too frequent to be coincidence.”

Bond pulled a book from the shelf and sat down opposite him, to his mild surprise.

“You may observe, though your speculation on my proximity is incorrect I assure you, Mr Quinn. The law of averages are not in your favour in this instance. Cambridge is a close-knit community and you and I are part of an elite and intensely-focussed group of that community. It is only natural that our paths would cross more than what is perceived to be normal.”

“Indeed, what is the definition of normal in the circumstances which we presently find ourselves,” Jonathan mused.

“What indeed,” nodded James in agreement. “In any event,” he continued, “you are here because it is ideally located amongst the books required for the preliminary work on your dissertation, and I am here because you have in effect forced me out of my comfort zone.”

“Really. And what zone might that be?” Jonathan enquired, his mind flitting back to several nights ago when they had crossed paths with Bond and his companion, Michael Vance.

“Much as it galls me to admit my ignorance on the subject, I am largely unfamiliar with the work of Alan Turing,” Bond replied candidly, opening the book before him to peruse the index in a show of seeing if it was suitable for his purpose.

“One can’t be expected to know everything in this world, Mr Bond, however high their station in life may be,” he said, leaning forward to rest his chin in the palm of his hands. “Turing was much the enigma himself, one of Churchill’s many and best kept secrets I’d hazard.”

“I can’t disagree with that I suppose. I can only look forward to learning more as your dissertation work progresses.” Bond shut the book and tucked it under his arm as he stood up. “Tell me, Mr Quinn. Why haven’t you yet selected a personal tutor for the year?”

“I don’t require one, Mr Bond,” Jonathan stated bluntly. “In case you haven’t noticed, I am incredibly competent and function much better on my own terms.”

 _So fucking cocksure of himself,_ thought Bond, _that in itself is very interesting, given his age and limited life experience_. The SIS are so sure about him… _What am I missing?_ He pondered between the moment of rising from his seat and moving forward. He rested a thigh on the corner of the desk next to Jonathan who looked up slowly and leaned back in his chair again, his body language relaxed but wary.

Bond turned the charm up to 11.

“Personally, Mr Quinn, I think you are denying someone an immense privilege who could benefit from working with you.” He allowed his eyes to linger on the long, slender hand resting on the arm of his chair, “pick apart that startling mind of yours,” he glanced up to take in the thick, unruly waves atop his head before meeting his eyes. “I’d like to put myself forward for the position.”

While unaccustomed to the forwardness, particularly in such a situation, Jonathan would be damned if he betrayed any indication that he was fazed by the proximity of the man and the proposition laid before him. He held his gaze while he replied. “To the best of my knowledge, Mr Bond, you are only at the College for one term. I wouldn’t want us to… start something we would be unable to see through to its natural conclusion…”

“I hope you will at least consider the proposal, Mr Quinn,” Bond allowed his eyes to glance briefly (but suggestively nonetheless) downwards to his mouth while he stood up. “Carpe diem and all that. Let’s not look beyond tomorrow…”

“… Because tomorrow never comes,” murmured Jonathan. He was staring into the middle distance, lost for several more moments before he snapped himself back to reality and the knowledge that Bond had vanished, silent and stealthily as he had appeared. He looked over his shoulder but the man was well and truly gone. He sat up straight, admonishing himself for being so easily distracted and resumed his studies, nonetheless, finding his thoughts stray back to his mysterious visiting lecturer to whom he was vaguely beginning to suspect there was much more than met the eye.

Jonathan Quinn thoughts flitted forward and back, pondering his next move and wondered, did he really want to know exactly what that _more_ was. _Fuck it_ , he thought to himself, shutting his textbooks with somewhat more force than was necessary. He needed to clear his head and treat the challenge presented him as he would any other.

Dispassionate appraisal of the pros and cons was the only way forward. 

He packed his bag and headed for the exit, unbeknownst to him, watched from one of those quiet, silent corners of the Cambridge Library.


	8. Such A Clever Boy

**London, MI6 Q Branch, 2012.**

“Still haven’t found what you’re looking for?” asked Bond, mounting the steps two-by-two to Q’s station where he was analysing the contents of Silva’s hard drive and the core programme downloaded during their island venture.

Despite being engrossed in his activities, Q couldn’t help the involuntary jolt to his stomach at the memory triggered by those words from Bond.

_… James’ mouth was sinfully warm against Jonathan’s stomach. “I have spoke with the tongue of angels,” he murmured into the unblemished valley where thigh met groin. “I have held the hand of the devil…” his lips danced dangerously close. “It was warm in the night. And I, cold as stone…” his voice hoarse with want, he moved up the boy’s torso before capturing waiting lips between his own, hot and eager…_

“I don’t know if you’re doing that deliberately and consciously, 007, but refrain if you please,” he mumbled over his shoulder, fingers barely faltering while the Agent took a stance just behind and to the left of him.

“Doing what exactly?” he enquired, all feigned innocence. Q certainly hadn’t forgotten that aspect of his personality, which no doubt had been finely tuned in the intervening years. _Bastard._

Q opted to change the topic to more immediately pressing concerns. “In answer to your question, no. I haven’t cracked Silva’s encryption yet. He’s done a bloody good job of re-writing my code.”

“Yours?” he enquired, intrigued.

“Yes, mine,” he muttered, turning back to Silva’s laptop to type a command. “And well you should remember, Bond. Had to keep myself busy in between completing my PhD.”

“I seem to recall some extra-curricular activities of our own that also kept you relatively distracted,” he jested under his breath though just loud enough for Q to hear.

“Hardly,” he scoffed, returning his deft touch to his own keypad. “Though not for the want of trying on your part. Commander Bond.”

Bond smirked at him, wondering how close he was to getting what he wanted. Q, however was no pushover then and Bond was quickly learning that in their ten years apart he had become even less so. Gone was the wild, reckless abandon of youthful vigour, only to be replaced by something far deeper, darker and more dangerous. Frankly and undeniably three of the Agent’s favourite things in life, regardless of what shape or form in which the crossed his path. He was like a burning room and Bond was the moth that would gladly accept the slow burn of death such an option offered. And they both knew it. Bond would dance to the Quartermaster’s beat for however long it took him to willingly bend to his own lead. Eventually.

“Look at this,” Q said, gesturing to the screen with a nod of his head, dislodging his glasses in the process. Bond stepped forward alongside him, taking in the complex patterns on the large display. “I’m a bone breaker, not a codebreaker, Q,” a hint of admonishment in his tone.

“Well, you’re the one so keen to revisit the past, Bond,” Q said matter-of-factly, the admonishment gently bounced back to his side of the court. “Did I teach you nothing whilst we were at Cambridge?” Q smiled inwardly, feeling the slight shift from indifferent to curious in Bond’s demeanour, interest peaked at his words. He looked at the screen, eyes scanning the realms of code for something that might jog a memory, reveal its secrets. “Do I at least get a hint?” he asked, keeping his eyes trained on the display in case he missed something.

“Let me put it this way,” he said. “A good artist always signs his work,” he tapped away, unravelling the encryption even as it attempted to tie itself up in knots again. “And signs it in a manner in keeping with the art form in question.”

And with that admission, Bond had the faintest recollection of a shared moment in time with his former student, not-yet-known-to-become Quartermaster.

“And don’t just look, Bond. _See_.”

And those were the words that triggered the memory.

_Jonathan roused slowly from a particularly deep sleep. He rolled onto his side to reach for James, only to find the man absent but nearby, standing by the window, looking out over the King’s College gardens slowly warmed by a golden dawn. “What do you see, James?” came Jonathan’s voice sleepily from the bed._

_“I dreamed of infinity again. Just… endlessness. You were there, but weren’t… And yes. I know that makes no sense,” he said, not looking around. He inhaled deeply allowing his arms folded across his chest to push it out of his lungs again. “We’ve complicated the situation.”_

_“Come here please, Mr Bond,” Jonathan whispered, tossing back the quilt invitingly. James complied and climbed in beside him while Jonathan wrapped his arms around his torso._

_“Do you have any idea what a fucking genius you have lying next to you right now?” stretching long to allow as much contact as physically possible with the man next to him._

_“I might have an inkling,” he said through a smile._

_“Complicated is my speciality. Leave it with me,” he mumbled through a yawn. “Infinity you say? Mmm… I like pi. My favourite number… Like you, makes quite alasting impression,” he said, drifting off to the feel of James’ lips pressed against his temple._

Bond scanned the lines, guessing now what he was looking for. He felt a faint flare of accomplishment when he saw it, a static design of letters that bounced around the screen but always remained in the same formation. The signature of the artist: 

 **DJQJD  
                                                                                                                     HH  
                                                                                                                     B   B  
                                                                                                                     H  H  
                                                                                                                     J    J** 

Q was watching him, saw when he saw it too. “I’d hazard a guess that your betrayal cut deeper than likely any physical or even life-threatening wound you’ve obtained in the line of duty, 007. Regardless, one never forgets one’s fir—“ Bond was watching him intently, knowing the admission was on his lips. “Yes?” he prompted. But the look of confusion on Q’s face stopped him from pursuing his line of question.

“What’s going on? Why are all the doors opening?” the hint of urgency in his tone rising with each clipped enunciation.

And that’s when all hell broke loose.


	9. Dinner Is Served

**Cambridge, 2002.**

It was early evening, two days after the encounter in the main library. Jonathan was lying on the couch in their flat, eyes half closed almost semi-meditative, still rolling Mr Bond’s proposal around his brain, while simultaneously processing all the information he’d digested that afternoon for his dissertation and organising it into the appropriate compartments.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to make yourself scarce this evening, Quinn.”

Jonathan startled at the unexpected sound of Stephen’s voice close to his ear. He grabbed the cushion from beneath his head and throttled him. Stephen laughed good-naturedly, standing from his crouch while Jonathan hauled himself into a seated position. “One of these days you’re going to do that and I’ll be holding a knife, or a flaming torch, or any other deadly weapon you care to bring to mind, and I will not be held responsible for my actions,” he gruffed.

He retraced the moments to Stephen’s opening statement. “Wait. Why pray tell am I being kicked out of my own abode this evening?” He placed the cushion back against the arm of the couch and punched it a couple of times before returning his head, fingers laced behind it, to rest. “May I remind you as I fork out the lion’s share of the rent, I have the majority say in what happens under this roof?” He looked questioningly at his flatmate, demanding the explanation without asking.

Stephen got down on his knees, a look of contrition and pleading on his face. Jonathan wasn’t buying it but played along regardless.

“I’m cooking dinner for Terence this evening and I’m afraid if you’re here, darling, your animal magnetism will undermine all my efforts and scupper my plans to get him out of his pants and into mine.” He looked up from beneath his eyelashes, a slight pout to his lips. It didn’t take much to break Jonathan’s resolve where conceding to Stephen was concerned so he couldn’t help but laugh at the audacity and simply said, “Wanker. Fine. The flat’s yours.” He rose up from the couch and grabbed his bag and a book from a nearby stack after donning his coat.

Stephen was beaming at him and blew him a kiss as he opened the door to head out. “Thank you, Quinn.”

“Just make sure he’s worth it, you daft bugger,” he replied, shutting the door behind him and heading off into the warm, bustling, post rush hour streets of Cambridge.

* * *

He found a quiet coffee shop not far from his street, bought himself an average cup of English Breakfast tea and parked himself on a table by the front window. He was painfully aware he spent far too much time indoors so grabbing the last few rays of evening sun while supping a beverage and reading some Homer felt like an appropriate way to kill a couple of hours. Then maybe he’d head over to St Radegund’s and spend a few hours there. See if Simon was working and what time his shift ended. He hadn’t had any rough and tumble for nearly two months now and he could feel the itch beneath his skin starting to make its presence felt. It would need scratching soon. Satisfied he at least had the outline of a plan to keep himself occupied while Stephen got his own end away, he shut down that thought and opened his mind to the musings of great Greek minds.

He was about 20 minutes and several dozen pages into his reading material when he felt the tingle on the back of his neck. He looked up and out the window across the street. He knew he’d been spotted when he saw none other than his Military History lecturer, directly opposite, looking left and right before jogging and dodging the traffic, making a beeline for Jonathan’s location. He resumed his reading before they made eye contact and didn’t look up from the well-worn pages, even as Bond entered and walked over to the counter to order himself a coffee. Jonathan could feel the man’s eyes on him. Prickling the surface of his skin. There was a physicality to his mere presence that was starting to impact him. Jonathan had yet to decide whether this was something about which to be concerned. He marked and closed the book and looked up, quoting the last lines he had read just as Bond approached him.

“Hateful to me as the gates of Hades is that man who hides one thing in his heart and speaks another.”

Bond himself felt the hairs on his arms rise at the words from the boy’s lips. Jonathan raised his head. Eyes met. Something shifted between them. Bond had known attractive men. But he had never been attracted to them. Not sexually at least.

“May I join you, Mr Quinn?” he enquired, remaining standing until the request was acknowledged. 

“I doubt I could stop you. Particularly since I know you followed me here, Mr Bond,” he said with a quirk to the corner of his mouth.

“Ah,” said Bond and had the decency to look a tad sheepish, or maybe more annoyed that he had been so easily caught out. “Not quite as stealthy as I give myself credit for then. Or perhaps you are more than your average observant.”

“Perhaps,” replied Jonathan.

Bond glanced down at the book. “The Iliad?” he asked, blowing gently across the surface of his coffee cup before tasting the liquid.

“I read it the first term of every year,” he said, picking it up to pack it away in his bag. “It’s my grounding text. Reminds me how small and insignificant I am in the grand scheme of things. Many of my peers and superiors - for want of better words - already think I’ve got an orbitally positioned opinion of myself.”

“Be that as it may, from what I’ve seen thus far, that position is quite justified.”

Jonathan’s expression remained unaffected. _God, he’s an intrigue,_ thought Bond to himself, while they silently appraised each other for a few moments. “Taking a well earned breather from the demands of your work, Mr Quinn?”

Jonathan waited until the coffee cup had resumed its position next to his lips before replying. “Actually, I would be studying but was unceremoniously kicked out this evening while my roommate lures an unsuspecting graduate into our lair for some carnally-driven education.” Bond coughed at the slid of some of the hot liquid down the wrong side of his throat. He covered his mouth and looked up to see the tight-lipped, cocky smile across the table from him. _Little shit. Two can play at that game._

Schooling his features, Bond decided to go for broke. Everything about the boy screamed _challenge._ And dammit if Bond was going to let an over-confident, astutely intelligent upstart of a teenager get the better of him.

 _Challenge fucking accepted,_ he thought to himself. He was going to break Jonathan Quinn, crack open that self-assured veneer, extract those secrets that the Service were so certain he contained within and lay him bare.

“Well it would be a crying shame not to take advantage of an opening in your schedule. Surely a tragedy of Greek proportions,” he quipped, laying the proverbial gauntlet at Jonathan’s feet.

Jonathan raised an eyebrow. Despite their recent exchange in the library, he wasn’t sure why but that was not the response he had been expecting. Something niggled at the back of his mind. He took note of it before responding. He was still convinced the man was not what he seemed but he did enjoy a game of bluff. Let’s see how far Mr Bond was prepared to go.

“Why thank you, Mr Bond. Dinner would be lovely…”


	10. A Beginning, An End

**MI6, London/Skyfall, Scotland, 2012.**

Darkness consumed the cold and fog-strewn Scottish moors. The fires from the remains of the Bond ancestral home burned the skyline.

And Olivia Mansfield, ten year long Commander-in-Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service, died in his arms.

Quietly, without pomp and circumstance, less than befitting a leader of her calibre and influence. The silence that fell upon Q Branch was deafening. But, at least she didn’t die alone.

She had lived making her last stand with her most trusted Double O by her side, stalwart in the eye of the tornado of violence that had whipped up around them all in recent days; Died, flanked by men of violence themselves, the children she had moulded in an image she believed could save the world from itself and the shadowy forces that threatened the ignorant and unwitting that they sought to protect from forces unseen every day.

Q had listened on the other end of their satellite enabled comms link, silent as a looming grave, confident Bond knew what he was doing, doing what needed to be done in the face of the usual insurmountable odds.

“Someone usually dies,” he had said. Prophetic words indeed.

She bestowed a small parting smile as she looked into bright, blue eyes, glistening in the soft light of the little church, her look that of one who knows and understands the sacrifices that have to be made in life and in death.

“At least I got two things right,” she whispered. “Take care of each other, Bond…” her voice fading into the gaping chasm waiting to swallow her up from this world.

And for the first time since he had known him, through the silence from the other side, Q heard the tears of a broken man fall.

Broken but not irreparable. Strong, resilient. Never beyond repair.

As always, Q, the voice in his ear, was there to ground him. “Come home.”

“James…” he whispered, just before the earpiece went dead. “I’ll be waiting,” his words echoing in the void.

* * *

**Cambridge, 2002.**

“Weaponised sharks? In place of naval subs? Are you barking mad?” Bond was incredulous in the face of Jonathan’s off-the-wall thinking. Then again, the boy could well be pulling his leg. It was impossible to tell.

“Well obviously they wouldn’t be _real_ sharks. That would be ridiculous.”Bond was of the opinion that this entire conversation was ridiculous.

He had been telling him the bare bones of his time in the Navy on their brief stroll from the coffee shop to where Bond’s mode of transport waited. Jonathan looked around briefly when they came to a stop on the pavement. “Where are you taking us for dinner anyway?” he enquired. “This area doesn’t exactly appear to be the Brick Lane of eating establishments…” He refrained from further comment when he saw his lecturer lean down to unbolt the helmet on the ground from the wheel of the bike next to where they stood. Bond was looking up and smirking at him while reaching into the pannier to pull out a spare helmet, handing it to the bemused student, doing his best to prevent his jaw flapping in the breeze. _I could get used to a sight like that,_ he thought to himself swinging his leg over the seat and looking over his shoulder. “Coming?” grinning like the cocky bastard Jonathan was quickly learning he was.

Jonathan did nothing to hide the fact that he thought the chrome beast was gorgeous, running fingertips across the soft leather seat before he climbed on, and wrapped one arm gently but not too invasively around Bond’s taut belly. It was obvious he was into his boy toys and Bond planned to play any weakness made available to him to his advantage. He slipped on the helmet and settled behind Bond without a second thought. “Show me what you’ve got then, Mr Bond!” he muffled through the headgear just as Bond kickstarted the engine. “Oh don’t worry, Mr Quinn, I plan to do exactly that!” he retorted, releasing the throttle and steering them into the traffic with such a deliberate jolt, Jonathan slid further down the seat, pressed from collarbone to shoulder down to groin meeting the small of Bond’s back. _Dinner can wait,_ thought Bond grinning to himself, _first to take the boy for a little spin._

So for the next 30 minutes, James Bond took his time ensuring Jonathan Quinn’s adrenaline was treated to elevated levels they hadn’t experienced in quite some time.

And if this was a taste of things to come, bring it on, thought Jonathan, as they sped down cobbled streets, scattering flocks of doves to the safety of high perches.

* * *

“You honestly expect me to believe _you_ are responsible for that little fiasco I’ve heard so much about? You’re the talk of the College,” Bond chuckled. “And I thought I was chaos on legs when I was your age.”

“I did them a favour,” said Jonathan precisely. “The firewalls were woefully inadequate. By hacking them I demonstrated simply enough where the weaknesses were in the system. The brightest and the best frequent these hallowed walls, Mr Bond. Surely you wouldn’t want their personal data up for grabs by shadowy forces that would do anything to jeopardise our national security?”

“Your foresight is admirable, Mr Quinn.”

“I’m well aware, thank you, but I appreciate the secondhand acknowledgement of that fact.”

They were in the lecturer’s personal quarters. It hadn’t been the plan at the beginning of the evening but Bond had decided to just go with the flow. He strolled from the kitchen to the small dining area where Jonathan was sitting and put the plate of food in front of him. Dinner was a quick and modest affair, befitting University life. Wouldn’t do to spoil the boy too quick, too soon. Might rouse unwelcome suspicions. Omelette, baked beans and chips it was then.

“You dine like a student,” said Jonathan. “Not that I’m complaining,” he said, lifting his fork to tuck in. “I find I’m quite famished.”

“It’s method eating,” replied Bond, plopping himself in the chair opposite.

“Method eating?”

“Like method acting. Only a means to get into the head and mindset of the student so I can better understand what makes them tick. I am at a disadvantage having never experienced the higher education system firsthand as one myself. And all the… perks that come along with that experience.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes, Jonathan enjoying the simple satisfaction of a simply prepared meal. On the fourth mouthful, as he raised the fork to his mouth, he also raised his gaze and watched Bond watching him intently in turn. The look on his features those of a man trying to pick apart a puzzle. Jonathan made a decision in that moment. Whether or not he would regret it was a risk he was prepared to take. Time to see how far this little game of bluff would go. He decided blunt was the only direction this evening could take. He put down the fork and folded his hands beneath his chin to rest it on the back of his hands. “You’re not gay. Why are you doing this?”

“What makes you say I’m not?” asked Bond, unmoving.

“I’m neither a boy, a toy, nor a fool, Mr Bond.”

“I never said you were and I apologise profusely if I’ve made you for one moment feel as though I perceive you as such,” Bond returned calmly.

“Good,” Jonathan replied, standing, Bond mirroring the movement. “Then I suggest we move this evening along.”

“What did you have in mind?” Bond enquired tilting his head slightly and taking a step towards him.

The student reached for the hem of his lecturer's pullover and tugged him closer. “I think it’s time I introduced you to the benefits of a slow, comfortable screw up against a wall…”


	11. Turning Points

Jonathan’s hand rested gently against his cheek, tracing a careful path from his temple down to his jaw, running the backs of his fingers along the chiselled line, a line as unyielding as the rest of him in many ways, in others, less so. Bond felt the involuntary close of his eyes at the touch, allowed himself the liberty of that much, unsure if he could do what he was about to do. Consequences could be an absolute bastard to manage if one’s armour isn’t designed for the right kind of battle.

He sought a little refuge.

His thoughts wandered absently to his mother. Because obviously that’s the first port of call for your brain when your body is on the verge of being seduced by a boy twelve years your junior. The softness in her eyes, the gentleness in her touch serving to remind you that no one in this life or the next could or ever would love you more.

He remained stock still when he felt the gentle press of a soft mouth, lightly trail along his lower lip. He thought about that first fumbling kiss with his cousin, Vanessa. Both nine years old, playing hide-and-seek and ending up in the priest’s tunnel that laid an underground path twisting towards the little church across the moor. They had kept each other’s secrets. Bond wondered, as Jonathan traced a non-evasive tip of tongue along his lower lip, what secrets he could prise from the young man’s lips tonight.

He focussed on the feel of warm, smooth skin slipping beneath the hem of his jumper and pushing the garment up over his head. He thought about the girl to whom he’d lost his virginity while in Eton. The clumsy way he had fumbled with the buttons on her blouse, compared to the all-too-confident manner in which Jonathan Quinn slid his hands down across his shoulders, his chest, his waist, before moving slowly and with care to caress the small of his back.

“What are you thinking about?” asked Jonathan, pulling Bond from his reverie to gaze into the eyes of the young man.

A little honesty in such an intimate setting had always served him well. “My first love, my first kiss, my first time…”

Jonathan gently pushed himself away. “I remember my first love. I’d wager yours is the same…” The perception of the boy was incredibly disconcerting. Jonathan took another step back, picking up the discarded pullover from the floor and handing it to the man. “You’re not ready for this.” Bond stepped forward to grab the jumper with one hand while he took the boy’s slender waist in a firm with the other. “Who are you to tell me what I’m ready for, whelp?” he retorted playfully, a disarming smile playing on his lips.

“There’s no rush,” Jonathan replied, tracing fingers along the abdominal ridges imagining if the pushpoints of the man would be as responsive to his touch as the keys on his laptop when he was rewriting the rules of the virtual world he frequented.

Bond decided not to push back. “Have you thought any further about my proposal? Becoming your tutor for the rest of the term?”

“I have.”

“And?”

“I’m just not sure who’d be tutoring who,” Jonathan replied, heading out the door. Bond was following, the offer of a ride back to his flat on his lips.

“Don’t worry,” said Jonathan. “I could use the fresh air.”

The front door closed and Jonathan Quinn was gone, a slightly bemused lecturer left standing torso bare in his own hallway.

* * *

**Two Days Later**

Jonathan stormed through the corridor towards Mr Bond’s office. Each click of his heels sounding like the crack of a small switch he was imagining flicking across Bond’s back for his impertinence. The results of their latest assignment had been posted and he was NOT a happy bunny.

He burst through the office door after only a cursory knock.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he glided out sarcastically, slamming the door behind him. “A B minus?! _B minus?!”_ his indignation was palpable. “Jonathan Quinn has never gotten a B in anything in his entire life and he’s not about to start now!”

“Though you certainly seem to have one in your bonnet right now, Mr Quinn,” Bond’s tone was mild, not trying at all to keep the condescension from his voice, slipping off his glasses and leaning back in his chair with a smirk.

That comment of course, only riled him even more. He tossed the paper forcefully onto the surface of his desk, slapping both of his palms flat on the hard wood surface. “What possible justification could you have for giving my work such an insulting mark? I demand to know!”

Bond leaned forward, not taking his eyes from the riled boy, flushed with anger, eyes dangerously bright. He reached for his pen, unscrewing the cap slowly and purposefully. He crossed out the mark and replaced it. With an A. It was worth it just to bear witness to a crack in the normally staunchly schooled expression. “Got you in here, didn’t it?” Bond said coolly.

_The utter bastard._

Jonathan stood straight and crossed his arms across his chest, trying hard not to reveal that he was actually impressed with the audacity of the man. He returned the look. “Well, top marks out of ten yourself, Mr Bond, for killing two birds with one stone.”

“And which two birds might those be?” he queried quietly, eyes dark as they shadowed Jonathan moving round to his side of the desk while Bond pushed his large, leatherbound chair back and turned it to the side to face his approach, creating a space between them.

“Getting me here and all bloody wound up into the bargain, so I’m forced to give you a damn good throttling for your impertinence.”

He leaned down, bracing one hand against the arm of the chair. “Let’s see what we have here then,” he said softly, both holding each other’s gaze while Jonathan laid probing fingers on a thigh, sliding slowing towards the buttons of his jeans, to pop them one by one, and reaching in to release Bond from their confines.

“So,” he said, raising a casual eyebrow on the word. “It would seem the hypothesis holds firm…”

“Hypothesis, Mr Quinn? Do tell,” Bond asked reaching for his own belt.

“Stocky. And just a touch on the thick side? Like his owner,” his grin broke unabashed across his youthfully exuberant features while Bond grabbed and dragged him into his lap to straddle his thighs with a “why you cheeky little fuc—“

He didn’t get any further with that comment.

* * *

**Saturday Night**

Jonathan’s hands were braced against the bedroom wall of one James Bond, fingers flexing rhythmically to the push of Bond’s hips against his backside. Bond had his face buried in the back of his neck, one arm wrapped firmly around the slender waist, holding him in place. He reached down then with his other hand. Jonathan could sense the smallest hint of hesitancy, small but present nonetheless. He leaned back taking his hands away from the smooth surface to place one on the back of Bond’s head while the other was laid to rest on his hip in an effort to encourage and recapture the smooth grind that had momentarily faltered.“Imagine what you like doing to yourself, what you like being done to you. Apply the imagined. Hold nothing back,” he whispered into the dirty blond waves. Between the words he flexed his thighs muscles, tightening them around Bond, both men slick with sweat and mutual desire.

“You make it sound so easy,” Bond breathed hot into his shoulder.

“It is, Mr Bond,” the title but giving and taking away authority, leaving Bond in a limbo of pleasure he wasn’t quite sure from which he was capable of escaping any time soon. “You merely have to trust that I have both our pleasures in my best interests,” breathed Jonathan, through the rhythm Bond had quickly found and resumed once again.

“You’re an excellent teacher, Mr Quinn,” Bond whispered quickening his pace incrementally. “I only hope I prove myself a worthy student.”

“So far so good, I’d say, Mr Bond. Keep this up and my recommendation for your future services will be so glowing, potential employers will have to don sunglasses to read it.”

Bond’s breathy laughter filled his ear, eliciting a wave of goosebumps that prickled down his chest and tightened his gut. He laughed in response, revelling in the mutual waves of pleasure rising high and less inhibited with each push and pull of the other’s body shared between them.

They felt the moment that drowning, submerging pleasure wrapped them both tight and unyielding, encompassing them in a sensual cocoon. Though neither in that moment realised, a chrysalis had formed.

How, when and what would emerge, only time would tell.


	12. Double Lives

“You’re a fucking romantic. I never would have even considered the possibility,” Jonathan said amusedly, turning his attention to the lake nearby and popping a cube of the creamiest cheese he had ever experienced into his mouth to melt slowly on his tongue.

It had been two weeks since that first encounter in James Bond’s quarters and while he remained convinced he was merely a no-strings-attached experiment for the man’s three month stint in Cambridge, he had found no cause to complain. Not that he’d tell Bond that. Wouldn’t do the man’s ego any favours to even hint that he was the most expert shag he’d had in his three years of sexual activity. If Jonathan had been a fast learner, Bond was an AI on steroids when it came to the nuances of sex.

 

_“Oh God…” The utterance had slipped out with a shuddered breath before Jonathan could realign his senses long enough to contain it._

_“Good?” Bond breathed hot against the side of his head, the slow grind of their hips against each other was_ insanely _good._

_“Could be better,” Jonathan tried in a husked whisper, attempting to sound nonchalant, just as Bond reached between their bodies and took them both in a large, rough hand._

_“Like this?” It was at that point the manual in Jonathan’s head had snapped its cover shut._

_It was in the aftermath of the encounter, during which Jonathan had given Bond free reign to explore and experiment to his heart’s and libido’s content, he had learned Bond’s gift was his adaptability to any situation. “While the mechanics are different, the dynamics remain larger the same,” he said softly, while running the tips of his fingers down his spine…_

 

“You’ll find I’m full of surprises, Mr Quinn,” replied Bond, pouring him a glass of wine and making to pass it to the lad. He drew the glass back just as Jonathan reached for it. “Hang on,” he said, with a frown, “you _are_ actually old enough, aren’t you?”

“Fucker,” he said with accentuated poshness, swiping the glass from the man’s fingers and tossing back half the contents with a defiant gulp. He watched Bond watching him, eyes resting with a contented look, that also spoke of not a marginal degree of covetousness, on the slant of his throat. Bond glanced up at the narrow-eyed gaze of mischief being returned, Jonathan tossing back another mouthful before throwing the glass on the grass next to the rug and wrestling Bond onto his back. Bond’s lips parted beneath the onslaught, allowing the warm ruby liquid to fill his mouth and swallowing it down gamely. He rolled the boy onto his back in reciprocation, bracing his elbows either side of his shoulders so he could bury his hands into his hair and his tongue into an eager mouth.

The kiss was languid. Languid fairly well defined most of what he had encountered while in the company of Jonathan Quinn. Pleasure that surpassed much of his expectations. He knew he had a task to complete, if he was to prove himself to the powers-that-be, but he was nothing if not a bloody good reader of people. His last meeting with Villiers had called him out on their developing “relationship,” if that’s what you could call it.

 

_“You’re taking your time, Commander Bond.”_

_“I’ve spent enough time in his company to know how to play this out. And it’s only been two weeks. You’re just going to have to trust that I know what it is I’m doing, Mr Villiers.”_

_“My superior seems to think so,” he replied, rising from the bench. “I’ll reserve my expectations until I see some solid results from your… endeavours,” he finished, walking down the path towards the gated entrance to the park._

 

Bond was hauled back to the present and the taut and eager body beneath him by the feel of fingers reaching for the zipper of his jeans. He broke the kiss, and Jonathan, not to be waylaid, made an eager diversion to his throat. Bond snared the wrist of his exploratory hand and brought it to his mouth.

“It’s getting late. We should get back.”

Jonathan rolled to the side and propped his head on his hand. “Not in the mood for a little al fresco?” he asked, teasing disappointment lilting in his tone. “And here was me thinking you Navy boys were the adventurous types.”

Bond rolled away and stood in one move, tilting his head to look down at him still lying on the rug. “Well as you so frequently point out, Mr Quinn, I am rather aged, and what with the sun setting, the cold might affect my joints to the point at which I would be unable to steer my bike and get us back to campus.”

Jonathan smiled at him, broad and uninhibited. Bond felt the warmth thud in his chest and the twist in his gut. _I’m getting close…_

“Will you teach me? How to ride?”

Bond was smiling, facing away from him while he opened the pannier to stow away the remains of their supplies. “If you’re very, _VERY_ good. Perhaps.”

He stood and turned only to find Jonathan kneeling in front of him, eyes bright as he brought hands up to caress his thighs. Bond found himself in a new and not altogether unwelcome position, taking a small step back to rest his backside on the edge of the bike seat. “And what exactly does a young, impressionable student have to do to qualify being very, _very_ good? Do I get marks for persistence and effort?” His voice taking on a seductive tone that he had learned quite quickly elicited a rather malleable response from the naval commander, though who was in command right now, was transparently obvious to both of them. Bond’s involuntary glance to his mouth was like a red flag to a bull where Jonathan was concerned. His fingers sought and found once again, the zipper of Bond’s jeans. Without ceremony or dalliance, he pulled it down. Jonathan leaned forward, an eyebrow raised. “Commando, Mr Bond? How very efficient of you,” he whispered coyly against hot, sensitive skin.

_Fucking hell…_

* * *

_Gen: What have you got for me today, Brendan?_

The cursor flashed on the screen, reflecting off the lens of Jonathan’s glasses in the darkness of their ground floor flat cellar, the spectacles reserved for screen time of this nature, when his alter ego traversed the coded and and impenetrable firewalls of the Darknet. Well, impenetrable to all but those who understood the intricate multidimensional map to which but a select few had access and could understand. The map reconfigured itself daily. It was testament to those minds that shared this space how vastly superior in mind and intelligence they were to the normal folk who lived their daily version of a four-dimensional linear existence.

Jonathan had been slightly concerned that he was becoming addicted to his habitation of this world. Few things in the real world titillated the pleasure centres of his brain in the same way as when he was exploring new and undiscovered corners of this strange, ever-renewing world. But then he considered that, given he was conscious of said addiction, at least that awareness meant he still had it under control.

For now.

He typed a response. The sentence brief and succinct.

_Brendan: I’m close._

_Gen: How close is close? I have a buyer waiting for the information. We stand to make a LOT of money._

 

*TAPTAPTAP. TAAPTAPP. TAP.*

_Brendan: The last firewall is always the trickiest. 48 hours. That’s all I need._

_Gen: OK. You have it. Don’t disappoint me._

_Brendan: To disappoint you, means letting myself down. I don’t do failure._

_Gen: Good._

 

The screen went blank but for three words: GEN IS OFFLINE.

Jonathan’s phone beeped with a message:

_Chaucer: Takeaway in hand. Warm the plates and prime your chopsticks, Quinn!_

Jonathan shutdown the system, hauled himself up the stepladder and through the trapdoor in their living room. He had just laid down the carpet and flopped himself casually on the couch in front of the TV looking like he had been lounging for an hour when Chaucer sauntered through the door.

“Hope you’re hungry!” he called from the hallway.

“Famished!” came the enthusiastic response from his roommate.

Hardly a surprise really. Living a double life can work up one’s appetite.


	13. I Wish I Knew How To Quit You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup. Title and set up shamelessly borrowed from Brokeback Mountain. I enjoyed this chapter. :)

**The Funeral of Olivia Mansfield, Oxford, 2012.**

It didn’t rain. Though the air did hold a chill that cut to the bone.

Bond barely felt it. He was raised on the moors of Scotland after all. He stood beneath an oak tree in the cemetery and watched the small prestigious gathering by the graveside of his former superior. The bodyguards milling about on the perimeter cast him the occasional glance but did not approach him.

He’d already said his goodbyes. No need to labour the point.

He turned away as the six gun salute echoed through the serenity and headed down the slight incline where his bike stood waiting. He thought he’d gone unnoticed, and he had. For the most part and by most people. But then, his Quartermaster wasn’t most people.

He felt the subtle shift in the air behind him but didn’t turn.

“Sneaking off are you?”

“You know how it is Q. Things to do, places to be,” he replied, sliding on his headgear before turning towards the man while tightening the buckle. Q felt his gut twist a touch at the look bestowed upon him by those bright, sky blues, all the brighter and more piercing, framed now as they were by the bike helmet.

Bond was turning to mount his transport when he felt Q brush past him and climb onto the rider’s seat.

“And what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Q flared up the engine, looking quite at ease on the chrome beast. “We’re taking a little ride. Get on.”

Bond was about to point out his lack of proper attire. Suit pants and wool coat were hardly conducive to barreling down the road on 500CC but thought better of it when Q said, “I’ve been on the other end of the comms when you were cutting at 60 and above across the roofs of the Grand Bazaar dressed in Tom Ford finery, 007. Don’t even think about it.”

And though he couldn’t see it, he recognised the sheepish smile in Bond’s eyes and the small shrug of compliance, whilst he did as his Quartermaster bid.

“Where are we going?”

“Back in time,” he replied mysteriously, pulling away from the kerb and applying the throttle, resurrecting for the briefest of time the piles of dying Autumn leaves that scattered wildly in their wake.

* * *

**Quinn’s Abode, Tuesday evening, 2002.**

“Perhaps you’ll think better of embarrassing me in front of my peers in future, Mr Bond.”

“You mean this is punishment?” Bond asked incredulously. “You really need to get to know me better, Mr Quinn.” He flopped his head back on the pillow and strained against the binds firmly snaring his wrists, arms braced flat on the mattress that lay on the floor. There was no base on the bed, Jonathan for some reason having a preference for being close to the ground, but he’d put two of his neckties to the best possible use in both their opinions by binding Bond’s wrists to the handles of the mattress.

As far as Bond was concerned, it was fucking glorious.

 

**_Earlier that day, Military History Seminar, Room 007_ **

_“…..Mr Quinn.”_

_“Hmm? What?” he muttered, as the sound of his name was accompanied by a firm nudge from Stephen._

_“As our resident expert on Turing, I was asking if you considered had the establishment and the times been more understanding of his nature, if more could have been done to save lives during the war and your considered opinion on how perhaps? When you’re done daydreaming.”_

_Jonathan’s recovery was impressive, though as he rolled off his answer, he could tell that Bond had clocked his brain had been on a little stroll down recent memory lane and no doubt had the cheek to assume he had been daydreaming about him. Which he had. But Bond didn’t need that confirmed._

 

“The way I see it, Mr Bond, you have two choices,” Jonathan said authoritatively while exploring his neck and chest with inquisitive fingertips. “Either you agree to stay for dinner and rescue me from certain boredom at the hands of Stephen Chaucer and his latest boy toy or…” he leaned down and mercilessly teased a nipple with his lips, “I leave you here, hobble you and use you for my own carnal satisfaction until there’s nothing left but a dried-up husk of a former Navy officer. And that would be a crying shame. It would be such a loss to the world seeing as you have so much left to give…”

Bond was up for considerably more pleasure touched with pain so pushed his luck.

“Whatever you say. Dauphin…”

Jonathan gave him a blank stare. “Looks like someone’s been doing their own brand of homework in his spare time,” the knife-edge sharpness to his tone was unmistakeable.

To say Bond’s grin was wicked would be an understatement, though his eyes told of a man in whose mouth butter would have a hard time melting. “What? I can’t embarrass you in private either? Where’s the fun in that?”

“You’re a dead man, Bond.”

“Have at it, Mr Quinn,” Bond encouraged, jutting his hips upward towards the groin of the boy. “Your brand of half-arsed threats don’t phase this salty seadog in the slightest.”

“Oh. Really?” Quinn returned an equally evil smile. “We’ll see about that,” he replied, and with one torturously slow grind of his hips, he climbed off Bond and reached for his bathrobe.

“What the—?” Bond watched helpless from his prone and firm-bound position.

“I’d better get dinner started then,” he said with a theatrical sigh, sauntering out the bedroom door.

“QUINN! Get your skinny arse back here NOW!” The rattle of pans from the kitchen, however, told Bond his request wasn’t about to be fulfilled any time soon.

 _Stroppy little shit,_ Bond grumped to himself punching his head back frustratedly into the pillow, though he couldn’t resist a self-depreciating chuckle at being beaten at his own game.

* * *

**Cherry Hinton Brook Lakes, on the outskirts of Cambridge, 2012.**

Bond climbed off the bike and looked around. “Place hasn’t changed at all.”

“You remember then?” Q said, propping the bike on the stand before dismounting himself.

“Of course,” replied Bond, pulling off the helmet and running his fingers through his hair. “As I recall, we had some fine wine, finer philosophical converse and even finer—“

“Yes quite,” said Q, cutting him off with a cough and a cool stare.

“So why are we here?” he asked, accepting the change of subject.

“We are here, 007, to prove to you that the past cannot be recaptured. It was what it was and we are now where and what we are. For better or worse, in your case I’ll hazard, a spy and assassin, and the Quartermaster charged with a duty of care.”

Bond unzipped his leather jacket to reveal a bright blue pullover that only made the man’s stare even more intense. Q stared back. He could tell Bond wasn’t buying his brand of “we’re all professionals now, let’s fucking act like it.” And were he perfectly honest with himself, he wasn't sure he was either.

“Why are you so bloody-minded determined to dredge up the past, Bond?” he asked, almost defeatedly, slumping against the slant of a large flat rock, standing proud by the shoreline. “Someone died because of us.”

“Someone usually dies, Q.”

Q sighed. “He was my best friend…”

“We’ve both paid in time and blood of our own for that. I find it somewhat surprising that you haven’t moved on. For a man who goes on about the past needing to stay where it belongs.”

“That’s different…”

“No. It really isn’t.”

There was a few minutes of silence. Surprisingly, it wasn’t awkward or strained. Bond spoke first.

“You want to know why I want you still?”

“Well it might help us address the fucking elephant, so yes, I do,” he snorted, sounding slightly petulant, reminding Bond again of the boy who turned his world inside out.

He looked across the water while he spoke the words, possibly the most difficult admission of his life.

“I never lost the taste of you or for you. I realised that when we met at the Gallery. I fucking hate that you have this hold over me, but if I’ve learned anything about myself, it’s that I need to face my demons head on. Otherwise, the bastards consume me.”

Q had slid down the rock to its base and was resting his head in his hands, looking down at the ground. Bond knelt down in front of him and took his chin in his hand to tilt his head back, forcing their eyes to meet.

“You still don’t realise do you?” he said softly.

“What?” Q asked, his tone verging on pained.

Bond caressed his jaw gently. “You weaponised me, Q,” he whispered, his own voice raw with honesty. “I was your first MI6 invention. In your hands, I became the perfect weapon, and you ruined me for all others. Except you.”

The turmoil in the man’s eyes was running riot and uninhibited but Bond knew he had won the battle, knew that the honesty he betrayed with his words was priceless in a world of secrets, shadows and lies.

“Fuck,” Q ground out, screwing his eyes shut tight. “FUCK. YOU. BOND!” he shouted into his face, allowing the anger, feelings of betrayal and years of burying himself in his work to be torn bodily from him, before grabbing the lapels of Bond’s jacket and hauling him towards him. He pressed their forehead together, his gaze fixed on Bond’s mouth, a hard line of bitterness and regret. “I wish I knew how to quit you,” Q muttered through gritted teeth.

Then Q let go. Released his tentative grip of the cliff edge he had been hanging from since their reunion at the Gallery.

The kiss was brutal, savage almost. But the years fell away. And both men knew then that going back, was the only way they could move forward again and become the men they were truly meant to be.


	14. Ulterior Motives

**Cambridge, 2002.**

“I think we may have a problem…"

“You mean besides the fact that you are taking your sweet time to produce results on Mr Quinn and how deep down the rabbit hole he has fallen?”

It was early Wednesday morning, the day after his shared dinner with Jonathan, Stephen and his current conquest. Except after last night, Bond was of the opinion that Stephen Chaucer was the one who was being used, and not merely for sexual gratification.

Bond was jogging lightly through the park. A step behind him, Villiers jogged in sync with him.

“I am making progress,” replied Bond, refusing to let the jibes get under his skin. Everything was a test with these people. Any emotional response would be seen as a weakness. And weaknesses could be exploited. Not a good trait in one seeking a career in the Secret Service.

“I had a look around this morning while Quinn and Chaucer were still asleep. There is a cellar. Though I couldn’t find a door. My gut tells me what I need to find is down there.”

“Well. That’s something I suppose,” replied Villiers, trying and failing to keep the edge of testiness from his tone. Bond smirked. Obviously, any delay on his part, meant Villiers was likely getting his ear bent by his own superiors. Anyway, that wasn’t Bond’s problem. Jonathan Quinn was, and now, a new player in the game it would seem.

“He and Chaucer are off on a field trip at the weekend. I plan to break in then for a more thoroughly search. If I don’t find anything feel free to pull me off the mission.”

“Tough words, Commander. We’ll see.” Villiers pondered for a few seconds. “You mentioned a problem?”

“Terence Masters.”

Villiers frowned. “What about him? He has no bearing on the situation.”

“He didn’t,” replied Bond, “but now he is in closer proximity to Quinn, thanks to his relationship with his flatmate. I’d prefer to err on the side of caution and have you do a background check on him. Something’s not right.”

“What makes you suspect his motives? I need a little more than the gut instincts of a field trainee on which to initiate an investigation.”

Bond stopped by a park bench to stretch his legs. Villiers was left with little option but to follow suit. “I doubt it will put you out too much, given the resources you have at your disposal, Mr Villiers. Please bear in mind the time I’ve spent with Quinn and the opportunities I’ve had to observe. So you’d do well to heed my recommendations.”

“You’re mightily cocksure of yourself, aren’t you, Bond?” Villiers responded coolly, before sipping from his bottle of lukewarm water.

“It’s why I’m here. And why you need me.” Bond jogged away from the conversation without waiting for a reply, confident his request would be met. After all, _they_ chose _him_.

Villiers merely watched him go. His superiors were right. 

He was perfect.

* * *

**London, 2012**

It was mid-afternoon when they got back to Central London, Bond in the rider’s seat this time, with Q plastered to his back like a limpet, as close as he could be to nodding off without actually falling off the back of the bike. Bond took it easy, avoiding the main drags of the city and opting for the quiet side streets instead to avoid traffic.

He pulled up to the kerb and killed the engine. Q peeled a heavy head from the shoulder blade on which his cheek had been resting and looked around somewhat groggily.

“Where are we?”

“My place,” replied Bond, propping up the bike, climbing off and wrapping an arm around Q to slide him off the back. “I hope you don’t mind. I don’t know where you live…”

“No, it’s fine,” he replied, voice as hollow as a drain, emotionally wrung out and too exhausted to protest. “Cats will survive until morning,” he said, without thinking through a yawn.

Bond ignored the implication of the comment. “Cats?” he enquired instead.

“Two. Betty and Turing,” he replied, eyes gazing heavy lidded at the agent. “Are you taking me to bed or what, Bond?”

Bond chuckled while wrapping his arm around Q again to steady him before climbing the steps to his flat. “There’s the Jonathan Quinn I missed and remember.”

“Indeed,” Q replied, leaning against the wall while Bond took out his keys to unlock the door. “Don’t be getting any ideas, 007. My shift starts at 8pm and I need a shower and some sleep. I’ll change when I get to Six,” he mumbled through another chasmic yawn.

Bond closed the door behind them, Q quietly slipping off his woollen coat before leaning against the hallway wall. Bond leaned close but didn’t touch while stepping past him. “Come along, Quartermaster.” 

Bond passed through the living room into the kitchen, Q following a few paces behind. “Keep going, Q. End of the hall,” he said, pulling a glass from a cupboard above the kitchen sink and filling it with water. Q carried on, unbuttoning his shirt wearily on the way. 

By the time Bond got to the bedroom, Q was down to his underwear and curled up under his sheets. Bond watched with a small smile at the dark mop popping out from the covers, face buried absent-mindedly in the pillow, inhaling deeply, as though seeking comfort in the memories of the scent of the man whom he had wrapped himself around so many times and so many nights before their lives had gone to hell in a hand basket. Hovering on the edge of sleep, he looked over his shoulder at the agent placing the glass on the side table before meeting his gaze. Q reached behind without a word and pulled the sheets back. An invitation. Bond stripped with perfunctory calm and climbed in next to him, pausing for a moment to collect his thoughts before wrapping large, strong arms around his waist and pulling them together. Bond buried his face in the nape of his neck and inhaled long and deep enough to rouse distant memories that had faded but never disappeared, forever hovering on the edge of his perception when he was feeling strong enough to look them in the proverbial eye and consider what he had been forced to give up. For both their sakes. 

And yet…

Here they were once again. Fate, it seemed, was not without a sense of irony.

“We’re complicating things again,” whispered Q.

“Except this time I have a fairly attuned inkling about the fucking genius I have lying next to me right now…” Bond whispered gently against his ear.

“Christ,” murmured Q, the irresistible pull of sleep, tugging mercilessly on his mind and body. “You haven’t forgotten a thing, have you…”

_Not a thing,_ thought Bond silently, running fingers gently down Q’s side to rest on a slender hip, the caress lulling him gently to sleep, to dream. To dream hopefully, of the possibilities yet to come.

* * *

Bond was woken to the sound of his doorbell two hours later. He frowned at the intrusive and unexpected noise. No one aside from Six knew the whereabouts of his property and as he had been placed on leave during the ongoing investigation into M’s death…

He reached for his Walther, always tucked beneath the mattress when he deigned to sleep, and slipped away from his dead-to-the-world Quartermaster. He kept his back close to the wall, sliding up the hallway towards the door.

“Commander Bond?” the muffled voice floated through the barrier between them. “If you’re there, please don’t shoot.”

Now Bond WAS curious.

“My name is George Brosnan. I’m the Executor of the Estate of Olivia Mansfield.”

Bond peered through the peephole in his door. Not sensing any immediate threat, he opened it a crack.

“Yes?” he asked gruffly.

The man looked at the half-naked Secret Service agent and cleared his throat. “I have an endowment from your late superior.”

Bond opened the door further. “You mean that bloody bulldog wasn’t enough?” He held himself still and watchful while the visitor opened the case he was holding and pulled out a padded envelope, thrusting it nervously towards Bond. “She insisted I deliver it by hand.”

Bond reached forward and accepted the package. “Thank you, Mr Brosnan.” And with a curt nod, the man tipped his hat and made a hasty retreat.

Bond pushed the door shut and ripped open the package. 

When Q awoke two hours later to find the bed devoid of his agent, he rose and wandered into the living room. It was there he was greeted by the sight of Bond reclined on his couch in a robe, a whiskey tumbler in hand and a half empty bottle of Talisker on the table next to him.

And the face of Olivia Mansfield - M - staring back at him from the TV screen on the wall opposite.


	15. The Opposite of Attraction

They argued.

It was fraught and heated to say the least and under other circumstances it would likely have ended with Bond wrestling Q to the floor and them having their long-awaited way with each other. As their disagreement unfolded, it ended with Q storming from the front room, grabbing his clothes and locking himself in the bathroom to dress while Bond kept his voice low on the other side of the door, demanding Q’s compliance.

He opened the door a few minutes later, composure, clothes and spectacles in place, every inch the superior officer. “You HAVE to take this to Mallory, 007. That’s an order.”

“You won’t let me right this wrong?”

Q narrowed his gaze. “Enough with the manipulation, Bond. I’m not a fucking mark.” He made to move past him but Bond grabbed his upper arm.

“By the time MI6 mobilises, M’s fears may well have been realised,” he whispered, his mouth a thin line, gaze hard, mind already kicked into overdrive on a plan of action. “I can do this.”

Q wrenched his arm from his grasp. “The last time we took matters into our own hands, our superior officer paid the price with her life,” he replied levelly, not looking at Bond. “I won’t have another death on my hands should your fly-by-night approach to our job go tits up, 007.”

“And if I absolve you from all involvement? You can plead ignorance to ever having seen her message,” Bond called after him. Q paused for the briefest of seconds at the bedroom door, throwing Bond the look of a man who would happily lock him up and throw away the key.

For all the good it would do him.

He slammed the door behind him without another word and left Bond alone.

* * *

**London, Q’s hideaway/Mexico City, The Day of the Dead**

Q watched events in Mexico unfold from his own “secret lair,” an off-grid and invisible lockup nestled amongst derelict buildings in the Docklands area. Because well, old habits die hard. He’d learned a lot from the Secret Service, but they were doing nothing more than honing and putting to excellent use the skills he’d acquired when he went on the run, a ghost in the machine, while they chased their own tails trying to pin him down.

Old habits, also appeared to involve his once lecturer and now Double O Agent. Of course he’d watched Bond work before, over Boothroyd’s shoulder, learning the ropes before he’d advanced to early promotion on the untimely death of the man, thanks to Silva’s orchestrated and devastating attack on Six.

But this was different. His mind strayed back to the lake, watching the acrobatic display of the helicopter over Zocalo Square while Bond wrestled with Sciarra.

_“You weaponised me, Q,” he whispered, voice raw with honesty. “I was your first MI6 invention. In your hands, I became the perfect weapon, and you ruined me for all others. Except you…”_

That knowledge had cast a very different light and shadow on their dynamic. So Q had rolled the dice. As Bond himself so often did. Yes, Q would be marched into Mallory’s domain once Bond’s little adventure had come to light and Mallory would demand to know how the hell Bond had managed to cause another international incident without the knowledge of the very department that should be keeping close tabs on him.

Q would feign ignorance, would lie without actually lying - a skill he’d learned very early in life - get a slap on the wrist and likely be tasked with devising a foolproof method to ensure Bond’s little jaunts were chokehold restricted in future.

He watched the drone relay events in close to realtime to the computer screen in front of him, watched Sciarra tumble from the helicopter, the pilot from the cockpit shortly after and Bond regain control before it took out half the population of the Square. He felt the long exhale from his lungs and imagined the cocky smirk Bond would be sporting right now, having once again and inexplicably in defiance of the laws of nature, evaded Death once more, on the very day Death himself had a party held in his honour.

Q powered down the system and locked up, still wondering if he wanted to kiss or kill the man.

Maybe both.

* * *

**London**

Bond was unfazed by Mallory’s grounding of him. The dressing down for levelling a half a block in Mexico City was hardly the worst thing he’d done in his career and the reprimand paled in comparison to M’s searing takedowns. Certainly, his temporary suspension made life a little more difficult if he was to continue his efforts to complete this one final task M had laid at his door. Sciarra’s funeral would be in a few days in Rome. She’d told him to be there. There was no question that he wouldn't be.

He wasn’t in a particularly good mood when he got back to his flat that evening, a mood he considered nothing but drowning himself in what was left of his Scotch could solve and help shuffle him into oblivion for a few blessed hours. He grabbed the bottle and walked barefoot down the hall towards his bedroom, tipping it to his lips to swallow a large burning mouthful. But as he pushed open the bedroom door, it dawned on him that maybe a half bottle of Scotch wasn’t the only solution…

Stretched, in what could only be defined as a debauched position across his bed, lay his Quartermaster, wearing what appeared to be graduation robes and…. a fucking _mortar board_?

“You appear to be dribbling, 007…”

* * *

Q had a habit of attracting sapiosexuals. Now, while this was perfectly understandable given his keen intellect and an IQ that would put the collective minds of MENSA to shame, what was little known and even less explored was his more sensual nature. It’s why he loved water. He had the body of a swimmer. Long, lean, lithe. And a body that deserved to be worshipped as much as his mind. He had found no one before or since who could accomplish those dual requirements with quite the same tenacity and intensity as James Bond. It was why those three months in Cambridge had been so satisfying. Instead of being a distraction, Bond had only heightened all his senses, and in turn, his studies had thrived. It had been twelve glorious weeks.

Q never in his life, since he’d become an integral part of the SIS machine, thought that he would experience those sensations again.

The hard lines of Bond’s torso, slick with sweat, now glided smooth and unimpeded along his own like the ripples of the lake in which they had swam what seemed a lifetime ago. The damp sheet beneath him, clung to his back. Q felt engulfed as moist, hot lips bore down on him, strong hands caressing his thighs, moving up to brace his forearms against his sides while Q strained his head further back to feel the heavy, warm breath land upon and cling to his skin, it almost possessing a physicality all of its own. Q wrapped himself around Bond, responding to nothing more than the drives and demands of his body. No words were shared. An unspoken warning was all that passed between them. Bond leaned back to watch Q’s face, the memories of his younger self flooding him in response to the expressions flitting across his features, Bond recognising the moment when he would pull out with delicious slowness, pause, and then dive hard. Q’s involuntary response to the move causing them both to spill, seconds apart. Bond rolled to the side, taking Q with him, reluctant to part just yet. They had both waited so long after all. Q opened his eyes to be met with that bright, blue gaze, warm and sated. He smiled, contented in the moment himself.

“And here was me thinking we’d only ever have the Autumn of 2002…”


	16. "One Saucy Sailor - Coming Right Up!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonus scene of 00Q deliciousness for myself (and you I hope!) because it’s my birthday. And like 007, I’m a shameless arse. And proud.
> 
> So there.
> 
> Enjoy before we tumble down the rabbit hole!

**That Tuesday night, Dinner at Quinn’s**

Jonathan wasn’t exactly known in close circles for his culinary flare and gastronomic panache, but he could make a decent bolognese when he put the required effort into it. As if in challenge to the limitations he was always pushing against, but also, he had to silently but grudgingly admit, to prove something to Bond, he set himself about making a sauce that would make an Italian Mamma swoon. He was busy chopping tomatoes and piling them into a large saucepan with the usual intensity of focus he applied to most tasks he set his keen and overactive mind, when he nearly jumped out of his own skin at the sudden and unexpected feel of Bond’s hands grabbing him by the waist and wrestling him - face first - against the cool surface of the fridge door. His wrists were in a firm grasp behind his back before he knew what was happening.

He struggled against the grip which only tightened. “How the fuck did you get out of those knots?”

“I’m a Naval Commander and a clever bastard, you ridiculous boy. In case you missed that memo. How do you think?”

Jonathan continued wriggling, which frankly, only served to arouse Bond even further.

“That’s not an answer,” he griped back. Jonathan happened to be very proud of his knot skills. Even Houdini himself would have struggled to escape them. “I wonder what your peers would make of your shameless behaviour.”

“A man’s got to have some secrets,” he replied breathily into the lobe of his ear, before giving it a distracting nip and a damn good tongue lashing while lacing one of Jonathan’s ties around his wrists. “And as for my peers, if they knew you like I do, Mr Quinn, they’d be forming a long and orderly queue halfway round the College.”

“Hey!” Jonathan grumped, annoyed with himself at being caught so off-guard. “Cease and desist, Mr Bond. Can’t you see I’m otherwise engaged?”

“Oh you will be, Mr Quinn. Don’t concern yourself with other such trivialities…” said Bond, spinning the student to face him, steadying his face with a hand on his jaw to kiss him with a hunger that Jonathan dizzily wondered if even he could satisfy.

“I’ve created a monster,” he said breathlessly when Bond broke away and lifted him by the waist to hoist him onto the kitchen worktop.

“You most certainly have,” replied Bond. “And now you must feed the beast.”

“You could at least wait for dinner, you greedy bastard,” Jonathan tried casually, goading Bond. Not that he needed any encouragement.

“Dinner will be a while yet. I’m in need of an appetiser right, the fuck, now.” He wrenched the knot on the robe open and pushed it from his shoulders, trapping Jonathan’s arms even further.

“Fuck…” was about all Jonathan could manage when Bond yanked him forward and he felt the slickness between his legs. “At least you had the decency to prepare yourself.”

“I considered it the least I could do. Given how fucking indecent you yourself are, Mr Quinn,” he responded, the look of a man intent on doing some seriously pleasurable damage to his favourite student.

He pushed him onto his back, Jonathan’s head forced to hang off the opposite edge. The position was only briefly uncomfortable before Bond grabbed him roughly behind his knees and mounted his legs over his shoulders.

Jonathan went completely pliant, allowing Bond easy entry.

“Christ…” Bond ground out through gritted teeth, letting his own head tip back while grinding his hips in a slow, smooth, glorious movement that Jonathan wasn’t ever sure he could get enough of. “That feeling will never get old.”

“You mean unlike you?” Jonathan croaked out, eyes closed, mouth going slack with pleasure as he accepted Bond’s answer to that little jibe at his expense, the man grabbing his erection and moving his grip over hot skin with a skill that defied the brief but intense period he’d been under Jonathan Quinn's spell. Mirroring the quickening pace of his own body, Bond’s movements were unfaltering, watching Jonathan for any telltale signs of discomfort. Greedy bastard he may be, but he had no intention of physically hurting the delicious thing beneath him. Yes, he still had a job to do, but he was known for immersing himself in his work and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to give his all to this particular task….

The sauce had started bubbling next to them as they drew closer to mutual completion, neither man in a particularly sensible frame of mind to notice. Notice much of anything in fact…

…Except, of course, the subtle cough from the kitchen door that wrenched Bond back from the edge of his climax with a cruel jerk. “I sincerely hope you’re not planning on chopping vegetables on that surface, gentlemen,” said Stephen calmly, though how long he’d been standing there enjoying the view was anyone’s guess.

Jonathan couldn’t help a ridiculous balk of laughter and Bond, without a modicum of embarrassment withdrew from the boy’s body only to hoist him over his shoulder in one smooth, unhesitant move.

“Won’t you excuse us, Mr Chaucer?” Bond said casually, Stephen stepping aside allowing them to pass. He watched in silent wonder as Bond turned back towards him at the bedroom door. Jonathan, hanging down Bond's back, was still shaking his head in abject amusement and giggling at the absurdity of it all.

“Oh, and give the sauce a stir while you’re there, won’t you? There’s a good chap,” he concluded with a wink and a grin, kicking the door shut, giving him just enough time to see Bond toss Jonathan onto the mattress and follow him down.

“Lucky bastard,” mumbled Stephen, stirring the concoction, imagining the ways he would enjoy employing to full effect to make Terence scream his own name later.


	17. Rome Calling

**London, 2012.**

“I find myself quite curious about the intervening decade. The path you’ve taken and the experiences you’ve known to develop and evolve into the weapon you are now.” Q spoke while standing by Bond’s drinks stand, replenishing their glasses with their third measure of two fingers of Scotch and brandy. He handed the Scotch to Bond and turned to stand by the bay window, the street quiet but for the occasional couple wandering along the pavement, arm in arm.

“My evolution was inevitable, Q. Luck and flaw combined with a set of unwise life choices and falling in with nothing short of an unusual crowd.”

“Starting with you of course. Trial by fire that you were,” he said, a glint in his eye.

Q threw him a brief glance and an acknowledging nod before turning his attention back to the world outside. Those dull, normal, uneventful lives living the way he never had nor ever would. He waited, still staring out the window, but Bond didn’t elaborate further, opting instead to change the subject and probe him.

Bond swirled the amber liquid, watched it cling like light honey to the inside of the crystal.“After M’s video message and your very clear feelings on the subject…”

“…You’re wondering why I’ve changed my tune and have agreed to help you,” finished Q, sipping the warming drink.

“Precisely.”

“I gave it some considered thought,” replied Q patiently. “It wasn’t a decision one takes lightly. But given that you and M have been living this spy life for considerable longer than myself…”

“Is that another dig at my age, Quartermaster?”

He glanced over at the couch where Bond was lounging, looking every inch the decadent bastard Q remembered from Cambridge. Times ten. Q turned fully towards him and moved unhesitatingly towards the occupied space, fully intending to take up residence in said space, all the while unbuttoning his cardigan before tossing it onto the floor. “Yes. And I find I’m very much in the mood to find out if your stamina is up to the task of keeping up with your Quartermaster.”

“I would have thought that the case for my stamina was well and truly made two nights ago.” Bond replied, sliding back further into the cushions, eyes dark and hooded with want, watching the younger man move and hone in on his location before he got half way through his sentence. He bore down on the agent with the single-minded intent of demonstrating just how deadly a weapon he himself had become in their time apart.

Bond steadied his hands on slender hips, letting his thumbs circle warm skin underneath his loosened shirt. “Still like it rough, Jonathan?” Bond asked, firming his grip on his waist to push him flat onto the sofa. He hovered above him. His lips brushed his cheek, like the blunt edge of a knife blade would brush against silk.

“Maybe a little. In moderation,” Q breathed. “Just around the edges,” inhaling sharply when he felt Bond released the target of his lust from the confines of trousered fabric.

“What? No foreplay?” smirked Q.

Bond moved a mouth onto his throat with measured restraint. “We’ve been foreplaying ever since the National Gallery,” he growled into the hollow of his throat. “But thank you for keeping that promise you made ten years ago by the way.”

“Oh? What promise was that then?”

“Permission to fuck you silly in your graduation get-up of course.”

“Oh that. Speaking of, that reminds me…”

“Don’t worry. I hadn’t forgotten either, Q. You’ll get yours. In due course.”

“I should bloody well hope so.”

Bond sat back briefly to undo his own trousers, seemingly happy for the both of them to remain mostly clothed but in close contact. “I’m not sure what this boring, little boffin-type has to offer an agent of Her Majesty’s Secret Service,” he said innocently. Not so innocent were the movements of his hands, one trailing fingers up a muscled back, the other busying itself exploring the contents of the seat of Bond’s underwear.

“Do shut up, Quartermaster. You’re not fooling anyone with that act,” Bond murmured into his hair, just as he wrapped one hand around the both of the them and slipping the other beneath him to caress a firm, smooth cheek in response to the bold but unhurried movement of Q’s fingers on him. God, it was delicious. Even more so than Q recalled. Both older, he supposed, both more experienced, both a little bit more damaged and seeking mutually assured respite in the rather enjoyable shared memories of their pasts.

Yes, he still had a task to see through, but there was no reason at all not to enjoy the offering above him, and if Q did this right, neither Bond nor MI6 would be any the wiser.

Because what Q had so deftly refrained for sharing with Bond was that while he had watched his little display in Mexico, he had also tapped into his surveillance earpiece and heard those three little words he had been searching for since before MI6, since before Cambridge even.

_The Pale King._

And now, The Pale King, just like he himself once a ghost in the machine, he who had destroyed his mother and murdered his father, was once again within his sights.

And Q had no intention of letting the man slip through his fingers again.

“You leave for Rome tomorrow?” Q said breathlessly.

“Yes,” growled Bond, more focussed on the responses of his body than stringing together any sentences. Though he did manage, “and I can count on your assistance, Q? A favour for an old friend?”

“You cannnn,” the words from his lips lengthening in tandem with the arch of his back against Bond.

Justice would be served. The memories of the people he had loved and cared for in another life would be honoured. But not before the Quartermaster of MI6 and the deadliest weapon that had ever passed through his hands had served each other, rekindling and losing themselves in memories of their own.


	18. The Shadows. Where We Must Do Battle.

**Cambridge 2002, Saturday Evening.**

Autumn had begun marching steadily towards Winter and the British evenings getting ever cooler while the days were getting shorter. Bond parked his bike in his designated place outside on the College grounds. He walked the 20 minute distance to Quinn and Chaucer’s flat, safe in the knowledge that Quinn was out of the city, spending the weekend in Bedfordshire undertaking more extensive research at the source point of his dissertation subject. Chaucer was also away, visiting family, so Bond was free to indulge in a thorough search of the place and hopefully find the entrance to the cellar, certain he would find there - if indeed there was anything there to be actually found - whatever MI6 thought they were looking for.

He walked calmly towards the house, the semi-darkness providing some cover though Bond had been there so many times over the last month he was confident no one would bat an eye at his presence. He fished the housekey from his pocket, a copy made a week earlier, unbeknownst to his young boffin of course.

James slipped the key into the lock and stepped stealthily through the door, pushing it to close softly behind him. Bond stood still for a moment, to centre himself in the quiet of the flat. So it came as quite a surprise when he heard —

“You weren’t supposed to be here, Stephen,” a muffled voice said softly.

_Terence Masters._

“Terence…” the other voice - Stephen’s - had an almost pleading edge to it. Bond slipped off his shoes and tread feather-lightly towards the living room. Peeking through the crack in the open door, he saw the heavy plush carpet tossed aside, and the soft light spilling up from the trapdoor open in the centre of the room.

“Whatever this is, whatever you’re doing, we can—“

Bond felt himself startle at the next sounds - POP! POP! And the thud of a body as it hit the ground.

“No. We really can’t,” came the cold response.

Bond stood stock still, as he heard the scrap of a chair and the the calm keystrokes of a computer keyboard.

He really was not equipped for this. Usually, he would be quite pleased with himself. His instincts about the recent appearance in their inner circle of Terence Masters being spot on. Sometimes, he hated being right.

At least Jonathan wasn’t here. The tapping of the keys continued unabated and Bond’s thoughts strayed briefly to the young student. But it would also seem he’d been wrong about Quinn. Blind even.

And MI6 had been right.

Had he had a gun, he could perhaps take on the intruder. But then, the very obvious thought struck him. He wouldn’t have to take him on. He edged to the hole in the floor and risked a look over the edge, placing his hand on the edge of the trapdoor, preparing to drop it shut and box the man in until he could call Villiers. He could see the lifeless body of Quinn’s former housemate and friend, lying crumpled behind the man; the top of Terence’s head in the dim light, fingers flying over the keys and the gun resting close next to him on the table while he evidently attempted to break whatever firewalls and levels of protection Quinn would have ensured to put in place to safeguard whatever virtual secrets he was concealing.

His phone buzzed and Terence paused at his task. He answered.

“Yes Mr White. I’m nearly in. I’ll download and wipe the memory when I’m done.” A pause. “Yes Sir. I’ll take care of your contact. Yes. It will be made look like an accident.” Pause. “No, Sir. There will be no trace back to you or Quantum.”

He shut down the call, and it was in that moment, that Bond’s phone pinged. Terence’s head shot back to look up and see Bond hovering above. Just as he reached for his gun, Bond slammed down the door which clicked shut. He legged it out of the room and down the hallway just as Terence unleashed a half a dozen shots up through the floor, following him halfway down the hall before the shots stopped.

Bond drew out his phone and looked at the message on the screen. He hit return call and didn’t have to wait for the end of the first ring before it was answered.

_“Bond? Report.”_

I’d like to report that your mistimed communication nearly earned me a bullet in the arse, Villiers,” he growled down the phone, voice edged with adrenaline.

 _“Perils of the job, Bond. You’ll get used to it,”_ he replied curtly. “ _We have intel on Masters.”_

“Wonderful. Better late than never I suppose.”

_“Meaning?”_

“I’ve got him wrapped up in a big bow for you and your boys—“ Bond turned back towards the cellar door when he heard the soft pop of a gun and saw the wisps of smoke wafting up through the gaps in the floor.

“Shit…”

* * *

“Well. That could have gone better…”

Villiers stepped up to stand next to Bond in the middle of the cordoned off street, the fire crew dousing the last of the flames. “But at least now we understand Quinn’s intent.”

Bond turned his head then. “We do?”

Villiers watched the milling crowd gathering on the other side of the cordon. “Shortly after your call, the online systems in Q Branch went a little, shall we say, haywire?”

“Yes…” Bond prompted.

“Turns out your boyfriend had set up a direct line - completely undetected - to our main server. As soon as Masters broke through his firewalls, it triggered a self destructive cascade effect within his own system, but not before it pinged us some very vital information on an unknown terrorist group and a name. A codename but a name nonetheless. Mr White.”

Bond remained silent, absorbing the torrent of information presently being processed by his brain.

“Mr Quinn had been planning his big reveal for some time, though how he himself is connected to this Syndicate, remains unknown at this time.”

“And Quinn?”

“We had a man on him, just to keep an eye on him while he was out of sight from yours.”

“Well?” gruffed Bond. “Are you bringing him in or what?”

“We would.” Villiers looked at him then. “But like a shadow at night, he’s… vanished.”

“He’s that good eh?” mumbled Bond, sipping a bottle of water one of the agents on the scene had given him.

“A very promising career in espionage I’d say,” replied Villiers with a knowing smile, picking up his ringing mobile with a “Yes, Ma’am” and strolling away, leaving Commander James Bond to his inner musings on a damp street in the November rain.


	19. M Is For Mother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a short one I know, but the anniversary of Olivia Mansfield's passing will soon be upon us so I thought it appropriate to give her the credit she deserves in this story for being the bridge that united Bond and his Quartermaster. A nod to her brilliance, before we move into the Spectre Fix and Q's period in the shadows.

_“Hello?”_

“Hello?” croaked a quiet, timid voice. “Is this the police?”

A brief pause. Before, _“it is, yes.”_

“Please help. Men. Two. In my house. Threatening my Dad.”

_“We’re sending assistance right now, Jonathan. Are you safe?”_

“Hiding,” he whispered. “In a cupboard under the stairs. Like Dad told me.”

_“Good boy. Stay there. DO. NOT. MOVE.”_

“…..Wait,” he breathed softly. “How do you know my name?”

 _“Do not panic, Jonathan. I’m a friend of your parents. Help will be there in…”_ A pause. _“….less than ten minutes.”_

Jonathan nodded, though he knew it was a fruitless, mindless action.

_“You don’t have to speak. Just listen to my voice…”_

And Jonathan listened, the sound of the punches and slaps from the other room, becoming dull background noise, like the ache in his head and his heart. He was vaguely aware of the woman’s voice, moving away, a breeze breaking up her words occasionally, other urgent voices, the sound of rotor blades humming in the distance.

He had no idea how long he’d been there, curled up in a ball in that dark, small space, fighting every instinct to run to his father, knowing at the same time how small and fragile he would be compared to the thugs who now had him at their mercy, how impotent he would be in the face of such men, these men with their fists, their knives, their guns and gut-wrenching words of violent promise.

And when the door of the cupboard under the stairs finally opened, after what felt like a lifetime, after his father had been dragged unconscious and tossed in the back of a van that sped away before his rescuers could get their in time, a woman’s voice, soft and encouraging said his name. The voice from the other end of the phone.

“Jonathan.”

He tipped upwards, the head buried in the crook of the arms wrapped around his bended knees and blinked, bleary-eyed at the figure crouched in front of him.

“My name, is Olivia…”

* * *

In the same year that the boy who would become MI6’s youngest Quartermaster was born, Olivia Mansfield met James Bond for the first time. A surly lad on the brink of adolescence with a chip on his shoulder the size of which could give a naval fleet a run for its money. James Bond didn’t realise it then but his fate was sealed the moment she laid eyes on him, his future mapped out in her mind’s eye in that briefest of seconds, a future in which he would one day become a blunt instrument for Queen and Country, honour bound to a woman whom he would bear grudging respect, unwavering allegiance and a love-hate relationship that was borderline unhealthy.

But when you know and understand a person’s past, the shaping of their future was simple enough. Simple enough if you were Naval Intelligence finest recruitment officer. Olivia Mansfield was an excellent judge of character. It’s why so many of her proteges ended up in the Secret Service.

James Bond; the user and the used, the abuser and the abused. He would embrace his destiny with the fervour of a man chasing his whale.

Orphans always did make the best recruits.

* * *

In the same year Olivia Mansfield met Jonathan Jefferies, the boy who would become Jonathan Quinn, James Bond was halfway through his naval career. Well, halfway as far as she was concerned, keeping a close eye on his progress and their mutual paths towards her goal to assume the mantle as Head of MI6 and have James Bond, amongst a few select other rare diamonds in the rough such as Alec Trevelyn and Tiago Rodriguez, under her command.

Men - and women - not so much broken, but needing the glue and stability she and the Service would provide to keep them intact long enough to perform the duties required to keep the nation safe.

Olivia Mansfield never had children of her own. In her line of work, she knew better. It didn't mean she couldn't be a mother to others. In her own twisted way.

The lives of men would be nothing, without the women who bring them together...

 _“At least I got two things right,”_ she had whispered with her dying breath. And as James lay along the length of the damp, cooling body of his slumbering Quartermaster, he wondered at the prowess of a woman who could see so far into the future, and contemplated the shape their world would take, now that it was devoid of Olivia Mansfield. He pressed a soft kiss into Q’s neck, his young and stalwart superior shifting closer to press his back with intimate and subconscious affection against James’ chest.

“Let’s see how right you were, Ma’am,” he whispered into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah. I've basically made M a 00Q shipper. Welcome to the club, Ma'am! :D


	20. Make Me Disappear

**Christmas Eve 2003, Hyde Park, London.**

Cold, crisp, clear. Winter was well and truly on the London horizon. The last vestiges of sunlight were disappearing beyond the city skyline, not that the crowds much noticed, given how London’s artificially generated lights drowned out any and all things natural.

Jonathan sat in quiet contemplation by the ice rink, specially installed at this time of year to add another superficial dimension to the hollow pleasures afforded by London life.

Cynicism aside, he did enjoy seeing children laugh as they fell over their own feet, picking themselves up again time after time with the assistance of an attentive mother or father. It was… heartwarming… in the chilly atmosphere. And warm hearts were sadly lacking in the world. Innocence a casualty. Hang onto that for as long as you can, Jonathan thought to himself, meeting the eyes of a little girl on her knees on the ice only a few metres away from him, brushing herself down, indignant that the ice had gotten the better of her. She smiled at him nonetheless, just before her father swept by and scooped her up into his arms to her abandoned delight.

Jonathan allowed himself a moment of escapism, an anonymous man in a throng of people concerned with no life and no cares but their own in that moment. Of course, anonymity was a luxury, and only applied when you weren’t the target of a particular person’s attention and were sitting in Hyde Park for a more than specific reason.

“May I sit?”

A voice from a lifetime ago. It still had the same effect that it had when it spoke softly to him in an effort to coax him from the cupboard beneath the stairs and into her arms.

He stood and turned to face her. “Of course, Ma’am,” looking down at the petite lady, no less intimidating looking for her short yet somehow imposing stature. He resumed his position betraying no recognition and she mirrored his move.

“Not Ma’am.”

“Not yet anyway,” replied Jonathan, continuing to keep his eyes with mild studious intent on the skating bodies drifting past them. “When’s the big day?”

“Early in the New Year. I’m not quite so scrutinised in the meantime…”

“So this may be our last meeting in person for some time.” He didn’t need to be told. Such a perceptive boy. Always was.

“How have you been?” she enquired.

With anyone else, the small talk would have been avoided, but they both knew that sometimes small talk mattered.

“Quite well, thank you.”

“I’ve been keeping an eye on you.”

“And I you,” he replied. “I am grateful for your interventions.” He sighed. It sounded resigned, though not tired. Olivia Mansfield was not prone to sentimentality. More a hindrance than a help in her line of work, though when it came to Jonathan Quinn, she had perhaps being slightly more emotionally invested in his wellbeing than was wise. Truth be told, he had been through so much. And now, barely twenty years old, to be thrown headlong into a world of lies and shadows and expected to survive. Few would have the mettle. But then, there were few in the world like Jonathan Quinn - a more precious asset for Queen and Country had she ever known?

Hardly.

“I’m good at hiding - in plain and virtual sight - but you have made that task considerably easier. Olivia.”

“You’re welcome. Jonathan.”

She placed the flash drive between them. Jonathan moved his hand smoothly with no intent other than to grip the seat and palm it before he stood.

He paused halfway through his movement at her next words, “Don’t you want to know? How he’s doing?” lowering himself back into position.

“Bond was a means to an end. For both of us. Not the end itself.”

Olivia quirked her lip. She wasn’t sure what answer she had been expecting but was satisfied with the one he supplied nonetheless.

“This will be a long game. Are you ready for that?”

“You say it as though I had a choice,” Jonathan ventured. “Do I?”

“We all have a choice, Jonathan. I’ll leave it with you to decide what is the best one. In all our interests. It is no exaggeration that you are vital part of the machinery that will bring these people down. Your father’s death and your mother’s suffering should not go unanswered.”

Jonathan glanced over her scarf-wrapped head then, to see the body hovering nearby, seemingly paying them no mind. Villiers returned the gaze for the briefest of moments before Jonathan turned his attention back to the embodiment of his past, his present.

Perhaps even his future.

“You don’t have to play the emotional strings of my heart,” he replied, doing his best to not bite out the words, the cold air stinging dry lips.

“I would never be so crass to think I lost as much as you that day—“

“Then don’t.”

He stood, she giving him the space and permission to lead their brief dance, whether he realised it or not.

“We both know I have no choice,” he replied. They strolled together, quiet and unnoticed, away from the ice rink. “They threw me into the shadows, you pulled me back.”

“And now?”

“Now…” he paused and looked up at the moon making its early evening appearance over the Thames. “Now, I will follow you back, eyes wide open, into those shadows.”

They had cleared the crowd. They truly looked at each other for the first time, which would be the last time for goodness knows how long. “But at least this time, I know what’s waiting for us.”

He stepped backwards and dipped his head towards her.

And then Jonathan Quinn was gone. Back to the shadows with only the smallest sliver of light that Olivia Mansfield could provide. And once she assumed the position of Head of MI6, he would truly be on his own. She turned and strolled with purpose towards her waiting car, Villiers falling into step beside her. “I’ll need to sack you, Villiers.” It took all the man’s composure not to falter in his steps.

“Ma’am?” the surprise in his voice clear as day. She stopped and turned to give him her full, intimidating attention. “Before you get as embroiled and fall under the same scrutiny as myself. I need someone on the outside. Someone that I can trust. Unequivocally.”

One of the wonderful things that came with loyalty was the ease at which mutual understanding accompanied it. Villiers didn’t need to be told twice. He knew eventually - circumstances permitting - that loyalty would be rewarded.

“Of course, Ma’am.”

“Good,” came the curt reply, though a fond quirk of her lips had not gone unnoticed.

“Now then. Let’s get back to a glass of brandy, a warm fire and my husband. Before he sends out a search party…”


	21. Lost and Found

**5 Years Later.  
MI6, London.**

“It’s good to have you back, Villiers.”

“It’s good to be back, Ma’am. I won’t deny my exile was difficult but it was certainly worth it.”

“I can’t disagree with you there,” she replied, circling her desk to stand in front of his relaxed but poised demeanour.

“I did have to fight for you. The Head of the GCHQ didn’t give you up easily. Fortunately I still have some clout and favours owed at Westminster.” Villiers couldn’t help himself. He blushed. “Though if you repeat that to anyone I’ll throw you off the top of this building myself.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it Ma’am. All your secrets are safe with me, ” he replied, straining to keep the grin from his face.

“You and Mr Quinn have worked very well together these past five years,” she said brusquely returning to the chair behind her desk, all business again.

“Indeed, Ma’am. I believe he will be an incredible asset to the Service. When the time comes.”

“When the time comes indeed. All the intel he has managed to glean has proved invaluable in shutting down the networks that plague us. Cyberterrorism is the future, Villiers. It’s nice to be one step ahead for a change.”

“How is the revamped Double O programme shaping up?” he enquired.

“Very well actually. Six agents recruited so far. Finally got my hands on Trevelyn.”

“Quite the catch.”

“He was. And it was bugger to land the beast. Moscow weren’t best pleased. But I’m not here to please the Russians, I’m here to make sure they don’t get the best of us.”

“And Bond?”

“Bond. Yes…”

Villiers knew his superior well enough to read even her most hidden cues. And of course, having had the pleasure of meeting Bond in the very early days of his recruitment, he guessed he had become the wildcard he had already began expressing in those early days.

“Unpredictable and frankly the luckiest son of a bitch I’ve ever known.”

Villiers raised an eyebrow in response. It took a lot to crack that cool, professional composure and elicit a curse from her lips. It would seem Bond was that tipping point.

Villiers cleared his throat. “Let’s hope that luck lasts.”

“Quite,” she replied. “He’s going to need every one of those nine lives of his once I assign him his Double O status.”

She leaned forward in her chair and reached into her desk drawer. “With all the information amassed by Jonathan Quinn coordinated, we can begin the systemic breakdown of this mystery organisation that’s been running rings around our intelligence.”

“He has proved his worth ten times over,” came Villiers measured praise.

“And the rest,” she replied. “We never would have determined the underlying patterns without his knowledge and instincts. But for the moment, we can leave him to enjoy death.”

M pulled a file from her drawer and dropped in on her desk, FOR YOUR EYES ONLY stamped clearly across the front.

“So. Where do we begin?”

“First, we’ve got to shovel the dung from our own stable, and at the same time, see if Bond has the mettle to carry the Double O mantle.”

* * *

Sex came - and went -  easy to James Bond. Confident in his ability to provide pleasure with the emotional detachment required.

That is until love rears her damn head. He knew the attraction was founded in his past. Her slender poise, clipped officious tone of voice, dark, brown waves and hazel eyes echoed of that brief intensely erotic period in Cambridge. Bond hadn’t bothered with relationships much since, with either gender. Sexual encounters were always welcome when they happened along but Bond made a point of never waking up with a bedfellow.

Breakfast was certainly never on the menu.

Needless to say, the prickly and attractive manifestation of Vesper Lynd during his assignment in Montenegro took him somewhat by surprise.

He never thought he’d make the same mistake again. Never was not a word to be used lightly.Was there a more dangerous drug in his line of work than love and the emotions that came with it to cloud your judgement? Not in Bond’s experience.

Betrayal was a bedfellow with which he was all too familiar.Vesper just served to remind him that betrayal was the only bedfellow he deserved.

**Christchurch, New Zealand**

Jonathan exited the bank into the warm afternoon sun beating down from a cloudless sky. He paused on the steps and looked up the street at the waiting car. Confident, measured steps carried his sneakered feet to the vehicle and he climbed into the passenger seat beside the driver. He took off his sunglasses and smiled at his blue-eyed companion who returned the sultry gaze.

“Going my way, beautiful?” he rumbled in sync with the starting engine.

“For now,” smiled Jonathan in return. “I think I might be persuaded. Did you have a particular destination in mind?”

“I can think of several places I can take you…”

Jonathan’s laugh was warm and genuine. Yes. Now was his time. He would make the most of it and enjoy all the freedom that death had to offer. 


	22. Double O Destination

**London, 2012**

“He’s on his own.” Mallory’s tone left no room to turn away from the directness of it, let alone argue with it.

He stood from his table, ignoring the pleading looks from his PA and the sour expression of his Quartermaster. “Destroy all software pertaining to the Smart Blood, Q. That’s an order.”

**Q Branch, Quartermaster’s Office**

“Bond can handle himself, Q. We’ve seen it often enough. I mean I practically handed him to Death on a platter and not even a bullet and a 100 foot fall could—”

“Of course he can, Eve. That doesn’t mean we should let him,” replied Q, cutting her off while busying himself at the desk in his office packing the Smart Blood tracker, earpiece and a few other unidentifiable objects that Moneypenny didn’t recognise.

“You can’t just go gallivanting around the globe after him,” she said levelly, sounding like a bomb disposal expert trying to talk down a device from blowing up a city block.

“Why not? Might be fun.”

Moneypenny was standing between him and his office door, arms folded.

“I and I alone can track him, and I can help him finish this,” he stated, rolling his shoulders back and squaring up to her.

“Oh you think so, Desk Jockey?” she needled mockingly.

Q gave her a cool look. “It might surprise you to know, Moneypenny, that there is more to _this_ Quartermaster than a lab coat and an iPad.”

“Oh I have no doubt of your hidden talents, so much depth and design to your self and the embodiment of all it is you do."

Q gave her a measured look of assessment. If Eve did know more - which it would not surprise Q to learn she did - she wasn’t letting on. He tried the friendly approach.

“I can help him, Eve,” he spoke softly, his look vulnerable and determined at once.

“And what makes you think he wants your help?” she pushed. Q didn’t push back. These were walls he knew very well how to break down, and while he was immersed in the realm of espionage, there was one weapon that always yielded magnificent results: the truth.

He put his bag down on the chair and leaned back against his desk. He didn’t take off his coat. He knew he’d be leaving soon enough.

“Bond and I…”

Moneypenny firmed her stance. “I know you’re fucking, Q. I’m not blind.”

Not looking at her, nor reacting to her comment, Q pulled the ace from his sleeve. “We’ve known each other in a previous life. Ten years ago, while I was at Cambridge.”

He watched the surprise take over her expression. And despite the circumstances, he couldn’t help but feel a small sense of satisfaction at demonstrating how much more he knew than the right hand of the most powerful person in the Intelligence Services.

* * *

It didn’t take long or too much detail to convince Moneypenny. The realisations as they dawned were obvious, now she was furnished with enough information to understand that there was much more depth and complexity to their relationship than simply Agent and Quartermaster. Their past went some way to explaining the ease with which they worked together, their exceptional mission success rate and the idle easy banter they shared when in each other’s company.

Within fifteen minutes, she didn’t need to hear anymore and Q was slinging his bag over his shoulder and heading through the door.

Moneypenny laid a gentle caress on his forearm before he left. “Please. Be careful.”

He smiled. Genuine, confident and warm. “How could I possibly deny such a request from the future Head of MI6?”

* * *

**Tirol Region, Austrian Alps**

Q absolutely could not remember the last time he was this cold. Cold enough to freeze the nipples of a Yeti was about as accurate a summation as he could define the temperature of this far flung Alpine destination. And while he wasn’t fond of weather extremes on either end of the scale, he made a mental note that in future, should he need to follow Bond’s arse to the ends of the Earth, he would at least make sure in advance that those ends were in marginally warmer climes.

He entered the Clinic, having pinpointed Bond’s location while on the lift, his handheld tracking device eyed with mild curiosity by some of the other passengers heading up the slope to go tumbling down it again - another example of humanity’s excellence in exercises of futility, thought Q to himself, looking round and catching the unmistakeable frame of the rogue agent.

Q ignored his thudding heart and the marginal but welcome flush of heat that trailed across his skin as he approached Bond.

He ordered a drink. Bond didn’t turn round. “When I asked if I could rely on your assistance, that request did not involve you trailing across Europe to replace my equipment, Q.”

“What can I say? I’m a sucker for fresh air and bollock-freezing destinations. Your presence is simply a lovely bonus, 007.”

Bond smirked and tilted his gaze towards the man. It still fascinated Q how such a colour could hold such warmth… “Well,” he rumbled gruffly, sounding very much in need of a scotch or two, “as you’re here now…”

Q cleared his throat and took a small step closer. “How can I help?”

Bond slipped the ring from his finger and handed it to him. “See what you can find out about this?”

Q’s heart skipped a beat when he clocked the mark on the ring, a mark he had seen before, many, many years ago, before MI6, before Cambridge, just around the time life turned to shit on a stick, not to put too fine a point on it. Bond wasn’t looking at him so didn’t register the momentary reaction. Q quickly regained his self-control. “Of course,” he replied, pocketing the item and turning to go. Bond was momentarily distracted by movement above them, though now at the exit, Q couldn’t see exactly what had captured his attention.

“Wait. Where—“ Bond began. Q barely paused, throwing the hotel name and room number over his shoulder with a small smile. He didn’t think there would be time for any of _that,_ but you know, hope springs eternal…


	23. When Jonathan Met Madeleine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for staying with me and sorry it's taken a while to update. I am finding it difficult to let this one go, as it nears the end. I promise a completion before holiday season though, with some Christmas crackers involving our favourite pair. :)

**Bedfordshire, England, 1992**

“Of course I don’t mind, Mum,” Jonathan said with a smile, the car bumping precariously against the occasional pothole.

Evelyn Jeffries just smiled and reached over to pat his knee. “Where would I be without you?” she said, taking hold of the steering wheel with both hands again to navigate them through the quiet Bedfordshire countryside. “I know you’d rather be tinkering with your toys in the attic…”

“While that is true, you need me. I don’t see it as too much of a hardship to tend the needs of the woman who birthed, clothes and feeds me.”

Evelyn threw back her head and laughed. “God, Jonathan. I have to remind myself you’re only twelve when you talk like that,” though her eyes were sparkling with love and amusement when she said it.

Jonathan tossed a cheeky look her direction. “Oh don’t you worry, Mum. I’m racking up these favours. This Christmas is going to be a very lucrative one…” The amusing banter took them all the way to the orphanage. While Jonathan wasn’t entirely comfortable amongst these lost souls, finding it difficult to identify with them, he nonetheless put those discomforts aside for his mother.

They entered the building together, a large old house refurbished with government funds and in considerably better shape than most of its kind. “So the assessor will be here in about an hour,” she said, rummaging around her holdall to find a keycard for her son which she handed to him. “Access all areas. Don’t abuse your privileges, young man.”

“As IF,” he scoffed with feigned shock. “See you at lunch, Jonathan. And go easy on the recruits!” she called after him, strolling off in opposite directions from each other, Jonathan towards the classroom to lend his assistance, his mother towards her office to prepare for her meeting.

He entered quietly and stood at the back, he and the teacher acknowledging each other with a smile. “So now let’s break and I want each of you draw me a picture of your favourite thing in the world,” she said encouragingly while walking to the back of the room to greet her assistant properly.

“Hello Jonathan,” she said, “so glad you could come. You’re a lifesaver.”

“No problem, Ms Poplar. Happy to keep an eye on them while you pick up your dog from the vet,” he said with a smile.

“Well you know everyone and they know you,” she replied, dragging her coat over her shoulders. “Oh except…” She turned to the small group, now immersed in their own world of pen, markers and paper, letting their imaginations run free. She gestured to the small blond sitting at the far end of the room. “Except our latest addition,” she said as she buttoned up her duffel. “Let me introduce you before I go.”

“Madeleine!” she called gently, the little girl looked up with bright blues eyes and a genial smile, revealing the slight gap in her teeth. She rose and wandered towards them, respectfully standing with her hands behind her back. “This is Jonathan. He’s going to watch the group for an hour. Is that OK?”

She nodded and looked up at him. Jonathan was tall for his age, though there was only 2 or 3 years between them at most. “Come see my picture?” she asked, extending her hand. Jonathan was a little surprised at the forwardness but complied. It was unusual for a new arrival to be so trusting of strangers. He took it nonetheless and allowed himself to be led to her desk. “What do you think?” she asked, leaning forward. “Very colourful,” he said with a smile. “I like it.” He glanced up and it was then he noticed thesilver chain and the ring with a black insignia hanging from it around her neck. Too big to be worn by a little girl. “That’s an interesting necklace,” he remarked. Her hand quickly moved up to grip it, almost instantly defensive as though she was aware she shouldn’t have it and was afraid someone would take it from her.

She fiddled with it absently before saying, “it was my Dad’s. He gave it me the day he left, asked me to look after it for him, promising he’d come back…”

Jonathan didn’t press the matter. Instead, in an attempt to break the dark mood threatening her composure, he stood tall and said, “pens down everyone! How about we go outside and catch some sun?”

He didn’t have to ask twice.

* * *

**Tirol Region, Austrian Alps, 2012.**

Q didn’t have to think twice about his situation. He knew he’d been followed back to the hotel and it was only a matter of time before they tracked him down. He ran the analysis on the ring Bond had given him in the Clinic and was left in no doubt. These were the people who had murdered his parents. He was also fairly certain that as soon as Bond had said information, he’d go on his merry way to track down the organisation on his own, wishing to keep Q out of danger.

“Bollocks to that,” muttered Q to himself. He sent Bond a quick text and stowed the laptop in the lower drawer of the desk where Bond could find it when he finally made it to the hotel. Q sat back and waited, rolling the ring between his fingers.

He didn’t have to wait long before the two thugs that had chased him off the ski lift after he and Bond had parted ways, came crashing through the door. He remained calmly in his chair.

“Ah gentlemen,” he noted composedly, though they were obviously anything but. He rose calmly to his feet, his hands raised palm forward to indicate his willingness to comply. “So glad of you to come. I’ve been expecting you.” He circled the table while they eyed him suspiciously. Q played his highest card, knowing it would take him to exactly where he needed to be. “I’m the Quartermaster of MI6, and almost certainly worth more to your organisation alive rather than dead.”


	24. The Girl Who Would Be The Pale Queen

Bond watched the scene unfold above from beneath Swann’s office. Seeing four thugs firmly guiding the unresisting woman out the door to a waiting vehicle, he knew he was about to have a fight on his hands. Swann was the key to getting to the bottom of White’s riddles. White had also somehow come to the conclusion that Bond was her best chance of extracting her and keeping her safe from the dangerous attentions of his former employer.

“It’s too soon,” said Madeleine to the head henchman. “My work here is incomplete. You hardly expect—“

“Your father is dead, Dr Swann,” he said, no hint of remorse in his tone. She sat forward, looking for any hint of deception in his words or expression. She briefly drummed her fingers on the desk and gave a curt nod.

He continued. “The man called Bond. Our employer wants you to lead him to L’Americain and ultimately to SPECTRE.”

“What could Oberhauser possibly want with a single MI6 agent?” she asked, rising from the chair and grabbing her coat.

“That is for him to know," he stated matter-of-factly. "I don’t ask questions of which I have no need of answers.”

“No matter,” she said, glancing down through the glass of her office to briefly meet the watching gaze of Bond before exiting with her “captors.” “I suppose we’d better put on a decent show for him then.”

* * *

Immediately after hauling a grateful Madeleine Swann from the remains of the 4x4, his text message came through, but by the time Bond and Swann got to the hotel room, Q was gone.

“Who is he? The man you were meeting here?” Bond slammed his hand angrily on the desk before replying and bending down to rummage the desk for the laptop. “My Quartermaster. Quite a valuable asset as you can imagine.” Madeleine smiled a smile that Bond didn’t catch while he focussed on whatever trail of breadcrumbs Q had had the presence of mind to leave behind before being spirited away. She strolled towards and rounded the desk to stand behind and watched over his shoulder at the information flowing across the screen. She recognised each of the men; all having at one time or another, past through her clinic; the clinic in which Oberhauser had installed her to work for SPECTRE and ensure those mean and women he chose to be his closest allies could be trusted with his confidence.

She had not let him down.

She realised in that moment that that of which she had now inadvertently become a part was not inadvertent at all. Bond was meant to find her; meant to find L’Americain; meant to find Oberhauser. And she Madeleine Swann, daughter of one his most deadliest allies had once again been entrusted with the task of making sure Bond came quietly and overconfidently so that Oberhauser could destroy him by his own hand.

She would not let him down this time either.

Bond’s attention was trained on the screen. LeChiffre, White, Green, Jinx. All were linked through the ring he had procured in Mexico. “Does any of this mean anything to you, Madeleine? Who is L’Americain?” he asked.

“Not who,” she said. “What. It’s a place. I’ll take us there. Hopefully, we will soon find your Quartermaster too. If he is as valuable as you say, SPECTRE will keep him close and use him to whatever advantage they can,” she stated candidly. There was no reason to hide the information now she was sure that Oberhauser wished her to impart it.

“SPECTRE?” Bond questioned, standing to face her.

“The organisation to which my father dedicated his life. Why do you think I was hiding here? They are dangerous, well connected and everywhere.”

“Your father said as much before… he died,” Bond said. “Let’s go,” he said, “no time to lose. Find Q. Find SPECTRE. Eliminate the threat.”

Madeleine trailed out the door behind Bond, confident that the threat would indeed be eliminated.

Though it wouldn’t be the threat as Bond perceived it.

* * *

Madeleine Swann had plenty of experience playing the damsel in distress who could look after herself. A double-edged sword of allure and appeal. She, of course, knew where her father’s hidden room was in his little Algerian hideaway. Bond was clever enough. She knew he’d find it eventually and it would give up its secrets.

It would help twist the knife a little deeper with its added gems from his own past as well.

Another step closer to Oberhauser’s design. And what a beautiful tapestry it would make.

* * *

**Bedfordshire, England, 1992**

They were driving away from the orphanage, White having secured the “adoption” of a little girl, a little girl who had always belonged to him anyway. Youth and innocence could infiltrate the most wary and guarded of hearts when wielded in the proper and most effective ways.

“You’ve been such a good girl, Madeleine. I am so proud of you, mon petit cygne,” White said, stroking his daughter’s hair lovingly. “You did everything I asked.”

“And now, Papa?”

“Now, the people for whom I work begin their true purpose,” he smiled down on her affectionately, filled with pride at her adaptability, her talent for manipulation and the vision of a future by his side. “If I tell you a little secret you promise to keep it? Just between you and me?” he leaned close to whisper in her ear.

“Ohhh yes Papa. You know I will always keep your - our - secrets,” she whispered through a shared conspiratorial smile. She snuggled closer as he spoke.

“Really, you are a little too young to understand the value of the Jefferies family and what they mean to us. But people in the service of Military Intelligence can teach us so much. Their value can never and must never be underestimated.”

Madeleine nodded knowingly, her maturity in strong contrast to the innocent countenance with which she gazed upon her father. “Of course, Papa. I understand.”

It was her nature. Her father had nurtured. Madeleine hadn’t rebelled. She had embraced and would continue to embrace the truth of what she was.

And Hell hath no greater ally than a woman who understood her place in the world.

 


	25. Keep Your Friends Close...

When you’re a little boy, dreams of becoming an astronaut, a rocket scientist, a rock star or a superhero are intrinsic to the fabric of growing up as air is to breathing.

The boy who would be Quartermaster had far greater dreams of grandeur. Through his early years of reading Philip K Dick and Arthur C Clarke and exposure to his father’s obsession with gadgets, his mind’s eye view of the future and his place in it was clear, a world where technology and humanity existed in peaceful symbiosis of which he was centrepoint, guardian of it all.

Of course, with adulthood, those dizzy expectations become tempered.

Q stood in the centre of the hub that was Oberhauser’s domain, screens lined the walls, eyes invading and intruding into the far corners of some of the world’s most powerful places. A SPECTRE-eyed view from an untouchable ivory tower that touched any part of the world or any person in it at any time. Unlimited resources amassed over time can afford evil geniuses such luxuries.

He stood flanked by two suit-clad heavies, armed and decidedly dangerous. Obviously.

Q cleared his throat, coughing into a cuffed hand. “Would it be a terrible imposition to ask for a—“

“Yes. It would,” one of the nameless suits growled.

“Don’t be rude, Costa.” A bodiless voice soft but loud filled the air. “Give our young guest a chair. It’s surely been a long and arduous journey from the Alps and he must be exhausted.”

One of his guards stepped away to retrieve a seat, the other instinctively shifting closer.

Q’s focus moved away from the intrusive body language at the sound of a door opening and closing in the shadows at the far end of the room.

“There he is. Finally. I have so looked forward to this moment.”

The footsteps moving the voice closer stopped. “Tell me. Do you know the story of Icarus, my clever little boy?”

“It is a well known Greek legend,” Q replied levelly, not revealing any outwards signs of disquiet, and despite the fact that the cuffs had now been repositioned so his hands were at his back. The chair was placed behind his legs and a heavy hand pushed him into it. Oberhauser, never one to miss the opportunity to enjoy the sound of his own voice, carried on regardless.

“Icarus and his father attempted to escape from Crete by means of wings that his father constructed from feathers and wax. Daedalus warns him of the risk, telling the boy to fly neither too low nor too high, so the sea's dampness would not clog his wings or the sun's heat melt them. Icarus ignored the instructions not to fly too close to the sun, when the wax in his wings melted and he fell into the sea.” 

Q took the option to remain silent for the time being, guessing there was a point to the tale. The footsteps had resumed their slow pace towards him during the soliloquy until the short, unassuming looking man in a grey suit stood before him and gestured for a chair as well. He sat and crossed his legs.

“Literary interpretation has found in the myth the structure and consequence of personal over-ambition. Personally, I think the reality is much more complex,” he tapped his fingers idly on his knee while he spoke. 

“Your father gave you wings thinking he could save you from me, but I, Jonathan Jefferies, I am the sun. And there is no escaping the power of the sun, particularly when you are arrogant enough to think you can fly so close and not suffer the consequences.”

They hid you so well. So cleverly in plain sight didn’t they? Under the cover of the orphanage, I had no idea you were theirs, their only boy, before it was too late and Olivia Mansfield and the SIS sunk their claws into you. Such a missed opportunity. One, I did my best to fill by stealing away one of her best agents, but… Silva was a law unto himself before the end.”

He stood up to look down on Q, Q confidently holding his gaze. “But it was lovely watching you grow into the man you are now, into the role of Quartermaster, slipping into the role like a custom-made glove.”

He leaned down and ran his fingers along Q’s jaw. “And now here you are.” He moved his hand up to tap Q’s temple. “And I have unfettered access to all the lovely secrets and lies stored in that beautiful mind of yours.”

Q smiled. “What makes you think my mind is beautiful? There are countless nooks and crannies under so many layers of encryption that even I don’t have conscious access.”

“Oh everyone has their pressure points, my dear boy. And rest assured, I am very familiar with yours…”

It was in that moment, Q heard the door behind them open and the sound of flat soled shoes followed by the smaller stride of female heels.

“Ahhh! Welcome my dear. Earlier than expected but no less welcome to my humble abode for that. And I see you brought a friend along? Well, now it’s a party!” said Oberhauser, clasping his hands together in mock glee.

“Q…” said Bond, moving forward and bending down on his haunches to great his wayward Quartermaster. “When I saw you’d been taken from the hotel room… Well. You’re alive at least,” he finished with a slight smile.

“007,” he looked pleased albeit a tad confused. “How on earth did you find your way here?”

“I—“ but the sentence was cut off abruptly. “Much as I’m enjoying the touching reunion…” Oberhauser waved a hand in the direction of the woman standing behind Bond, who swiftly dispatched the agent into unconsciousness with the butt of the gun she wielded. 

“Well. That was highly uncalled for,” Q said through gritted teeth, wanting nothing more than to move down and see to the man crumpled at his feet. A pair of slender legs stepped over the body and Q allowed his gaze to travel up her form to meet her eyes.

He frowned. “And who might you be?”

“Jonathan,” she tutted. “I’m disappointed you don’t remember. The little orphan girl who helped her father get close enough to the Jefferies and put a severe dent in the activities of MI6?”

She smiled, revealing the gap in her teeth, the blond hair, the almond-shaped intelligent eyes… “Madeleine?” he whispered.

“Come, my dear. There will be plenty of time for fraternising with old acquaintances later,” Oberhauser said with a touch of impatience.

She tilted her head, revelling slightly as she watched the dawning knowledge of the damage which she had helped inflict.

“With the death of my father, you didn’t think you’d get to meet the co-author of all your pain, did you?”

Q could feel the anger swirl in the pit of his stomach like a volcano bubbling on the brink of release.

He could only watch as she turned away to join Oberhauser while he and James were dragged away in the opposite direction.


	26. Watchful Guardian

**Early Hours, The Morning of Bond’s Departure to Rome**

The alarm on Q’s phone woke him from his restful state at 6am, determined to have his way with Bond one last time before he took off for Italy. He fumbled across the bedside table, fruitlessly looking for his phone which had fallen from its perch onto the carpet. His hand, however, came to rest on something else which hadn’t been there the night before.

He cracked open an eye to see a small rectangular box through slightly blurred vision. He reached for his glasses and sat up. Bond was still sleeping so he reached to the floor to retrieve the phone and silence its quiet vibration. He sat back against his pillow and eyed the box suspiciously.

Something to do with Bond undoubtedly. Maybe a piece of shrapnel or the pin of gun. Or a grenade. Or a cat treat.

He braced himself and flipped open the lid.

To find nothing. The box was empty.

“You should perhaps look under the covers, Q. That box may be empty, but this one isn’t.”

Bond tossed the quilt back to reveal his morning glory, proud and eager against his belly and adorned by an item of clockwork.

“You do realise that putting a watch on your cock doesn’t actually neutralise sperm don’t you?”

“Unnecessary I believe,” Bond chuckled deep in his chest which Q had now reached for to place his hand lightly on his chest.

“You bought me… a gift?” he said, half enquiring, half bemused.

“Well. You’re always furnishing me with such lovely toys I thought it about time I returned the favour,” Bond replied with a sleepy smile.

Q slipped it off its holder and turned it over in his palm. “What? No inscription?”

Bond raised himself up on an elbow. “I considered the gesture in itself sufficient as a personal statement of my affection.”

“I— don’t know what to say.”

“No need to say anything, Quartermaster. But, if you’d like to verbalise your gratitude, I wouldn’t say no to a blow job.”

Q slipped the watch onto his wrist and climbed onto James. “How long until your flight?”

Bond checked the timepiece. “About 3 hours,” he replied. “Oh, though I should point out a rather interesting feature…” Bond began.

“Later,” mumbled Q, stretching long across the welcoming form beneath him. “There’s another rather interesting feature I’m more focussed on at the moment…”

* * *

**Earlier That Week**

“How can I ever repay you, R?”

“Not with all the tea in China, 007,” she replied jestingly. “Though perhaps more of an effort made with the Q Branch toys would be a start.”

Bond studied the watch. “So aside from telling the time…?”

She took it from him gingerly and turned over. “Aside from that rather useful function, the casing acts as a two-way USB storage device. Press the top button once and it will wirelessly connect with the nearest hard drive which also has a wireless router, and it will download information into its memory. Press the bottom button once, and information stored in the USB will automatically transfer in the opposite direction.”

Bond smiled. “Just the kind of thing he’ll appreciate,” retrieving it from her proffered palm and pocketing the watch, grabbing R’s hand smoothly and planting a kiss on the back of it, eyes sparkling with appreciation.

“He’s certainly worth the effort,” R said with a smile.

* * *

 

**Back in Oberhauser’s Base of Operations**

Bond’s return to consciousness was abrupt, though he had mastered the rather useful skill of feigning a convincing weakened state. He found more often than not it gave him the upper hand in life-threatening situations.

This was definitely one of those situations.

He raised his head in a lolling motion just in time to see Madeleine slip a needle into the Quartermaster’s neck, his head wrenched to the side to allow her easy access. The goon’s hand was buried deep in Q’s hair and that flared an unreasonable reaction in Bond given their circumstances.

Oberhauser was sitting at a computer console. He spun in his chair to face the boffin sitting behind him. “Now my dear boy. The concoction my beautiful colleague has flooded into your system is of her own making - a rather clever combination of scopolamine and pentothal. Torture is so messy and so very 20th century don’t you think?” He rolled his own chair back to the side, creating a space for the goon to manoeuvre Q’s chair in front of the console.

Bond watched on. Ever the opportunist. Because at some point, no matter how small, a window of opportunity always presented itself.

He observed the tension slip incrementally from Q’s shoulders. Oberhauser obviously saw it too. “Excellent. Now we can begin.”

He lifted Q’s hands and placed them on the keyboard. “Here is what I want you to do, Jonathan. My associate in London, you know him as Mr Denbigh, is standing by ready to initiate Nine Eyes. But now that you are here…I think our little venture will be greatly enhanced by access to the MI6 mainframe.”

“Of course,” said Q, voice compliant and soft, his hands moving with slow confidence across the keyboard.

“Q…” said Bond. “Stop.”

Madeleine shot him a threatening look. “I’ll be happy to send you back to sleep, James.”

Q didn’t falter. Oberhauser leaned back with a smile on his face and watched, impressed with the display of technological prowess. “Better late than never,” he sighed ruefully. Madeleine leaned down to whisper into his ear. Oberhauser smiled at the words. “How I missed you, my dear,” he said fondly.

After of a few minutes of diligent typing and breaking through his own impenetrable firewalls, Q paused. That drew everyone’s attention back to the Quartermaster.

“Is there a problem, Jonathan?”

Bond for his part, hadn’t taken his eyes off Q the entire time. So only he had noticed the change in body language. That window it seemed, was close to opening. Bond braced his body and mind for the inevitable burst of pain.

“I need the access codes to link Nine Eyes with the MI6 mainframe.”

“Ah, of course,” said Oberhauser, turning to Madeleine. “My dear. If you wouldn’t mind doing the honours.”

Madeleine smiled and stepped up to the console, Q moving slightly to the side to give her access. All eyes were on Madeleine for the next few moments but not Bond’s. Q’s hands slipped into his lap and Bond saw his finger press the bottom button on the watch. His gift. Within a few seconds, the main console and all the surrounding screens went blank.

Then a line of words typed up on the screen:

ACTUALLY, I AM A BLOODY CLEVER BOY

“What—?” Madeleine paused in her movements. “How…”

The window of opportunity had opened. In the moments of unbalance and uncertainty, Bond dislocated his left thumb and slipped his cable ties. He reached for the gun holster of the nearest bodyguard with his right hand and dispatched all three of them in seconds. He had the weapon trained on Oberhauser before the man barely registered what was happening while Q had disabled Madeleine with a swift kick to the knee causing her body to buckle to the ground with the unexpected move.

Bond tossed another commandeered gun to Q who wasted no time pointing it at Dr Swann. The venomous look aimed at him was filled with contempt and defiance.

“Go ahead,” she spat through gritted teeth. “What are you waiting for?”

“Nothing would give me more pleasure,” Q said, cocking the weapon. Bond did not intervene, confident and trusting he understood his young Quartermaster. “At this moment in time however, 007 and I need to get out of here in one piece.” He gripped her by the upper arm and pulled her to her feet. “And as a bargaining chip, you and your boyfriend here are worth more alive than dead.”

“On your feet, Oberhauser,” Bond said, his gun still steadily levelled at the man’s head. “We’re getting out of here and you’re our exit…”


	27. Cue, 007

**Two Days Later, MI6 HQ**

“Welcome back, Quartermaster. Excellent to see all body parts intact and accounted for.”

“Thank you, M. Hopefully I won’t be venturing into the wilds of fieldwork again any time soon. I found myself quite desk sick.”

M moved to take a seat behind his own mahogany monstrosity in the office, Q hovering on the other side. “But don’t think for a second you are getting off lightly. The only thing that has prevented you and 007’s backsides finding yourselves at the sharp end of my boot is the capture of a dangerous ally of SPECTRE of whom we had no knowledge existed. Once we turn Dr Swann, her information will be invaluable in hobbling the network, imperative given that Oberhauser is in the wind.”

“Our intervention was merely a setback…” Q said resignedly.

“A rather crucial one nonetheless,” continued M. “Fortunately for you, my former persona as a politician affords me the ability to speak in terms those stuffy suits in Westminster understand.”

Q waited.

“I sold your ingenuity to them at your foresight in using the viral program that took down the Nine Eyes network and prevented a second crippling hacking event into the MI6 mainframe.”

Q gave a modest smile. “The least I could do was learn to adapt the program Silva had unleashed on MI6 and turn it to our advantage.”

“And you did admirably well in that regard Q.”

“However…” Q braced himself. “You did lie to your superior when you said Bond was in London when in actuality he was in Rome. Skipping along the peripheral of treason, Quartermaster.”

“I understand Sir,” he said, squaring his shoulders.

“A probationary mark on your record that will be expunged in a year. Assuming no other little off-script adventures in the interim.”

Q tried to remain stoic but appreciative. Of course, he couldn’t help himself but ask. “And Bond?”

“Bond’s lucky he’s so bloody good at his job,” muttered M under his breath. “Dismissed, Quartermaster. Threats don’t sleep and nor should we.”

“Yes, Sir,” said Q, turning towards the padded door to make his exit.

“Oh and Q?” The boffin felt his hand tighten on the doorknob, a momentary thought of “knew it was too good to be true” flashing across his brain.

“Sir?”

“Congratulations. I hear you have assumed the mantle of R’s best man at her wedding in the absence of her brother.”

Q pushed his glasses up his nose. “Not really sure congratulations are in order, M, but I’ll do my best.”

“No doubt,” he replied turning his attention back to his screen. He pushed a button on his intercom just as Q was closing the door behind him. “Send in 007 in 5 minutes please, Miss Moneypenny…”

Bond rose from the edge of Eve’s desk just as Q clicked the door shut, flirting like a peacock in heat no doubt, thought Q to himself as he caught sight of him.

“Not too harsh a reprimand I trust?” Bond enquired, moving to stand in front of Q, watched avidly by M’s PA much like she would watch a soap opera unfold.

“Nothing I can’t live with,” Q said with a nod. “I assume he’s saving the best of the arse-kicking for you, Bond.”

James smirked like a man who wouldn’t have it any other way. He leaned a little closer, keeping his hands in his pockets for fear of some inappropriate touching ensuing in the workplace.

Q could fantasise if he wanted.

“Will I see you later?”

Q made a show of letting out a put-upon breath and checked the schedule on his iPad. “Mmmm.”

“Mmmm?”

“Unfortunately any spare time I have for the next two days is taken up with a dinner rehearsal and suit-fitting.”

“I simply can’t wait to see you in a tuxedo, Q,” Moneypenny said with a fond sigh.

“Ugh,” Q simply groaned in response before heading towards the outer annex.

“Probably as much I can’t wait to see him out of it…” finished Bond.

“You two are bloody incorrigible.”

“Thank you Q,” said Moneypenny.

“We do our best,” finished Bond, just as Eve ushered him in the direction of M’s door.

“Ah, 007,” Q heard M begin. “Only a multimillion pound car at the bottom of the Tiber this time. You must be losing your touch…”

Q smiled.

* * *

**The Wedding Night of R and Victoria Spencer**

“Oh I am so dreadfully sorry,”said Q humbly to the elderly woman with whom he had just collided back-to-back, knocking her off balance and spilling some of her champagne on the jacket of her partner who gave the briefest of scowls before brushing the incident off. It was a wedding after all.

“For a man who handles such sensitive equipment on a daily basis, you can be so frightfully clumsy. Nice speech by the way. I found the nervous little laughs at your own jokes particularly endearing.”

Q turned to be faced with the human (sort of) embodiment of his all-situations-bar-none nemesis, 007. He was about to toss back the jibe ten fold when he noticed…knees…

“You appear to be wearing… a skirt, Bond?”

James rolled his eyes while snagging a flute of champagne from a passing tray. He sipped it and just gave Q the side eye before looking around the room.But he wasn’t only wearing his tartan, his upper body was fully kitted out in his naval uniform, right down to his rank and the medals with which he had been awarded during his service.

Q turned his own attention to the crowd and took a deep breath through his nostrils, followed by a levelling exhale through barely parted lips.

Bond leaned in then. “Don’t worry, Quartermaster.”

“And why would I be worried, 007?” he asked, glancing down at the bubbles in his own glass with a tight-lipped frown.

He met his gaze then, Bond’s eyes momentarily reflecting the warmth of a Mediterranean ocean rather than the usual demeanour of his stone-cold killer. “I hadn’t forgotten my promise to you, years ago though it was,” said Bond. Q took only a moment to reflect. The night he had treated Bond to a long since made promise of his own to let him have his way with him in his graduation robes. Bond had made bloody short work of those garments. They were beyond repair and Q had had to fork out £150 to replace the damn thing which had been on hire purchase.

Q’s own eyes couldn’t keep the sparkle of anticipation hidden while he looked at Bond. “I’ve booked a room for the night,” Bond whispered conspiratorially as he leaned closer still. “So you won’t have to wait _too_ long to get your hands on my Scian Dubh…”

“Presumptuous arse,” muttered Q under his breath. Bond merely turned away, kilt and its contents swinging loose and free in Q’s imaginations of a non-existent breeze.

There was something about James bloody Bond. The sooner Q could unravel the mystery, maybe the less time he’d spend being so enamoured by the charming bastard. But as he watched the agent sweep the bride and his second-in-command off her feet and onto the dance floor, he considered perhaps some thoughts were best left unspoken and some mysteries best left quietly slumbering in the dark.

 

**THE END**


End file.
